Tolling Bells
by Terriah
Summary: Holmes has never been partial to women. He will deal with them only on a professional level. But when a New Forest squire is murdered, followed by his son, Holmes is forced to re-consider his stance on showing no compassion. Holmes/OC eventually.
1. Smoke, Bells and Parties

_Hey guys!_

_Well it's been a while and I am steadily rewriting and editing my fic and hopefully this time it'll all run a bit quicker and smoother. I am aiming for one new chap a week, please review! It really will mean so much to me!_

* * *

**Smoke, Bells and Parties**

The resin hissed and spat in the flame that enfolded it, slowly softening. An expert finger and thumb quickly removed it from the heat, deftly rolling it into a small ball. The fresh burns went unnoticed. The ball was placed over a lighted candle in a lamp, painted with black spirals and red dragons, and covered by a misted glass cover. The resin quickly began to smoke, leaving the lamp through a reed pipe that twisted upwards to a black mouthpiece, carved into the shape of a dragon, its mouth open in a cruel grin, the tip of the reed taking the place of its tongue. Smoke rose in wisps, from the gaping mouth.

The boy, his shaved head gleaming with perspiration, handed the pipe to the man propped on a mat nearby. The addict raised it to his lips and drew in a lungful of the drugged smoke, followed following it shortly by with another.

Shaking slightly, he handed the pipe back to the boy, exhaling slowly as he lowered himself down. He rolled over onto his back, and closed his eyes slowly as the familiar feeling of the drug slipped into his bloodstream, taking over.

The boy watched as the man lost consciousness, his prone form mirroring that of every other sleeper in the room. The Sleepers could stay like that for up to a day and through that time, he and the other children were responsible for watching over them. The boy turned his attention back to his charge, watching the body rise and fall as he drew in short shallow breathes.

The man stirred, his face contorted into a frown. The boy glanced down at him, noting the sweat that was building upon his brow. A fever was taking a hold. Quickly, he stood, and returned a few moments later with an old man. The den master bent down and laid a cool hand on the other man's cheek.

The sleeping man felt the other man's hand on him, but did nothing. The smoke was consuming him, clouding his mind, blocking out the rest of the world. He felt as if fire was licking his body, scorching his skin. The suddenly it stopped. And a voice called to him. First soft, feminine; then harsh.

"Holmes?"

* * *

The bells tolled slowly and heavily into the grey morning, leaving an echo on the air of Hampshire. The church doors creaked slowly open as the funeral party gradually departed the building. Positioning themselves at the door, the reverend and a woman in black, presumably the widow stood thanking people for their attendance. There were words of comfort from the women and brief handshakes from the men.

The mourning widow seemed altogether a little too calm, for some people's liking. She was pretty, not much older than thirty, and wore a richly embroidered black lace dress that clasped her body into a perfect hourglass. Her expression was one of perfect, beautiful sorrow, but it was her eyes that gave her away. They were cold and emotionless, looking down on people as they left.

"Thank you for coming, Thomas would have been touched," she thanked one couple as they passed, smiling sadly. She turned to receive the next person, and felt her smile freeze. A small woman, younger than herself, was standing firmly on the path leading from the church and eying the widow with great contempt.

"Miss Anna," the older woman said curtly, bowing her head.

Miss Anna fixed her with a cold stare, and returned the identification, "Mrs Latimer."

Mrs Latimer avoided the piercing grey eyes and asked scathingly, "Are you returning to London soon, Miss Anna?"

The girl shook her head, smiling bitterly, "Can't even let me mourn my brothers death, can you dear _sister_," She laughed bitterly, "Oh you shall have your wish. I return this afternoon." Mrs Latimer nodded briskly and began to walk away, but was arrested by a sudden solid grip on her arm.

"If I ever find you were involved in his _accident_, I will personally watch you hang," Miss Anna hissed softly in her ear. Mrs Latimer pushed the hand away and swept on away down the path, leaving the other woman satisfied, but angry, her dark curls blowing softly in the wind as the breeze picked at the grass and played softly against the tolling bells.

* * *

_**Obituaries**_

"_It is with great regret with we announce the passing_

_of Mr. John Frandil, who leaves behind a wife and_

_two sons"_

"_The family of Mr. H. Wilson commemorate the above death and invite all his acquaintances to his funeral this Monday"_

_Thomas Latimer of the Hampshire estate Forsetlys died beside his family. Aged 39_

"Why do you read those things Holmes? It truly is morbid!" Sherlock Holmes lowered his paper and glanced across the room Dr. John Watson, who stood by the window, watching the street below.

"It is with avid interests that I watch the deaths of this city," Holmes said idly, returning to his paper, "You never know when they might be of some assistance." Watson raised an eyebrow, and shook his head.

""Oh, hang it all, Holmes, just be ready for dinner in an hour," he informed the detective and then after a small pause, "If the dead can spare you."

"Why?" Holmes' voice floated over the top of the London Times, idly picturing his friend's disgruntled face.

Watson sank into the chair opposite and began pouring himself a cup of tea. Once strained and drinkable, he sank back into his chair and said indulgently, as if the other person were a small child asking why he must attend church, "Because, my dear fellow, it is in our honour, for solving the incident of the Hound. I promised Sir Henry we would be there." A small grunt answered this explanation, which Watson took favourably as a yes. They sat in their usual companionable silence for some time, the occasional rustle from the papers and clink of china the only noise.

A while later, Watson glanced at the clock and stood, stating, "Time to go."

Holmes put down his paper indignantly, "You said an hour!"

Watson smiled slightly, "So I did. Now get ready." Sighing, Holmes set down his paper, drained his coffee and stood also, stretching out his long limbs. He began to pull off his brocade dressing gown as Watson moved towards the door. Opening it, he turned his head and casual said, "Oh and Holmes. Do something with your hair,"

He left, leaving an annoyed detective in his wake, who muttered,

"What's wrong with my hair?" as he hunted amongst the papers pinned to the wall for a mirror.

* * *

"The train was very crowded, and the lack of seats forced Miss Anna to resignedly settle herself at the back of the train in the compartment before the guards van, trying to ignore the feeling that the entire compartment was whispering about her singular travelling state.

_Let them talk_ she thought, closing her eyes. _Life can't get much worse_.

Hours later, she was awoken by a touch to her shoulder. Blinking sleepily, she peered at the Guard who stood above.

"We're in London, Miss. You had better be getting off," he informed her gently. The young lady thanked him before departing the train. She wandered across the platforms and down the steps that led to the small waiting room.

A starched old lady sat waiting for her, erect on a chair; hands folded over her the black umbrella that was poised against the stone floor. The lady looked up as Anna entered.

"You're late," she stated dryly. Anna caught sight of the station clock as it quietly struck eight. She made to speak but found she could not. The world was being beginning to cloud over and the very tips of her fingers were beginning to tingle. "The haughtiness abruptly vanished from the older woman's face, as Anna suddenly fell to the floor.

* * *

Music and laughter greeted the two as they were ushered into a large, brightly lit room overflowing with people. Holmes coughed uncomfortably and adjusted his tie, watched as an amused Watson looked on.

"Mr Holmes! Doctor Watson!" A warm, friendly, Canadian accent rang out over the heads of the crowd

"Sir Henry," Watson called and began pushing through the masses to meet his friend, abandoning Holmes in a corner. The two men greeted each other fondly, for it had been some time since they had shared company. Brandy was ordered and the pair began recounting their lives since their last meeting.

Holmes shifted nervously for a moment or tow two before settling himself hurriedly against a wall where a portrait a ferocious hound hung, presiding over the gathering.

"There you are my old friend," he muttered, somewhat reassured.

* * *

"I see Holmes still prefers the quiet life," Sir Henry commented to Watson, sipping his brandy in good humour as they watched Holmes sit silently on his own. Watson nursed his own glass and sighed. Sir Henry noticed and asked concerned,

Sir Henry noticed, and voiced his concern. The doctor knocked back the contents of his glass, wondering what to say. He opted for the truth.

"You know Holmes is something of a," he waved his hands trying to locate the right word, "narcotics addict,"

"Surely not?" the Canadian asked. Watson nodded glumly.

"Now I know this sounds pathetic but I had a promise that there would never be another time," Watson expanded, setting his glass down on a passing waiter's tray and picking another. Sir Henry glanced uncomfortably at his friend.

"Perhaps," he suggested hesitantly,"We should find him another hobby?"

Watson nodded in amused agreement, "Perhaps we could introduce him to someone? Or maybe Mrs Mortimer is here?" Sir Henry chuckled, and pointed to the centre of the room where the superstitious Mrs Mortimer stood surrounded by bewildered young men and women.

"I think she's scaring them," Sir Henry sighed, and set his glass down, "You must forgive me Dr. Watson," he said, squaring his shoulders, "If I do not come back alive," he glanced at the ceiling, "Mourn for me?" Watson nodded solemnly and pushed the other man on his way.

"Mrs Mortimer!" Sir Henry cried, "You must forgive me ladies and gentlemen but I believe the good doctors wife owes me news of Dartmoor." He finished his sentence with a flourish and firmly guided a jubilant Mrs Mortimer towards a chair, grimacing as he passed Watson, who raised his glass in salute.

Three dances passed and still had not left his seat. He observed with steady religion the traffic of the room, with varied amounts of amusement. The relief on the faces of Mrs Mortimer's former audience was highly apparent, and Sir Henry's evident preparation of avid interest in what she would now say to him. Watson's voice at his side broke off his show and he twisted his head around to look at his friend.

"What was that Watson?" he asked brightly.

Watson sighed, "I said, would you mind if I called in on a patient before our return to Baker Street?"

Holmes looked hopeful, "Are we to return soon?"

Watson sighed again and frowned disappointed,

"Get your coat, I'll tell Sir Henry."

Sitting back in the cab, Holmes yawned and pulled on his gloves, feeling the cold creep into his bones. Watson clambered in opposite him and stared out of the window as the cab rambled down the street.

"Which patient are you looking in on?" Holmes asked politely, aware that the doctor had wished to stay longer.

Watson continued to stare and when he did speak it was short and curt, "You don't know her."

Holmes' mouth formed a silent "o" and looked away. After a while he said quietly,

"You could have stayed." Watson grunted dejectedly and Holmes smiled slightly and returned to the window.

A few minutes later the cab stopped outside a row of tall, daunting buildings that looked down at them in with grey faced stares. Holmes pulled his collar up, and opened the door to the wispy tendrils of fog that filled the streets. Watson paid the cabby and stepped up onto the curb, jamming his hat firmly onto his head.

"Come on," he muttered setting off down the street briskly, pausing briefly to allow Holmes to catch up. They walked in amicable silence before stopping at the grimmest house in the area.

Its windows were shuttered and drawn. The door was black, a giant silver door knocker hung imperiously upon it, in the shape of a fox. Hanging from the topmost railing, was a sign, scrawled upon as if by a child, "No Vacancies." Watson glanced back at Holmes, who smirked slightly and indicated the door.

"Your patient," he said midly. Watson drew in a breath and adjusted his hat, before knocking lightly.

Almost immediately the door sprung open, formidable looking lady, her grey hair pinned tightly, not a single hair out of place. On her face she wore a frown, and around her throat was the high clasp collar of her black mourning, dress. just "black mourning dress".

"Yes?" her voice was as cold as her eyes, and sent a chill through Watson. Notably though, Holmes stood unperturbed, observing the woman before him with his customary detachment.

"Doctor Watson to see Miss Latimer. May we?" Watson asked, an edge of anxiety creeping into his voice as he pulled off his hat.

The woman looked down her nose at him disdainfully, then at Holmes. Sniffing slightly, she opened the door fully, "I suppose you had better come in."

* * *

They followed a maid up the stairs, having left their hats and coats on a stand in the hallway. They passed through a short corridor, and then ascended another flight of stairs.

"Here we are sir. Would like me to check if she's decent?" the maid asked, a touch of cockney entering into her voice with the absence of her mistress, Holmes noted absently. Watson nodded and gestured with a wave of his hand; The maid knocked and went in. A moment later she opened the door, "Doctor Watson to see you Miss."

From somewhere in the room, a female voice replied, "Thank you Eliza, have a good evening." The maid bobbed and left, allowing doctor and detective to enter.

A fire burned in the grate, illuminating a reasonably furnished room, and in the shadows could be seen the outlines of doors leading to other rooms. The curtains were drawn yet the gas lamps were low. Watson stepped forward and adjusted one, lighting the dresser upon which it stood.

"You just had to do that didn't you John?" came a voice from before the fire. Reclining on a small sofa was a young woman dressed in a stiff black dress that fanned out under her. Smiling softly, she pushed a strand of her dark tawny hair behind one ear and sat up, setting her feet on the floor. Watson chuckled and stepped forward to embrace her. Kissing both her cheeks, he smiled in return before frowning slightly,

"Well Miss Anna, you certainly look pale," he placed a hand on her forehead and tutted. "You shouldn't sit so near the fire," he scolded, removing his hand. The woman scowled turning her head to the doorway.

"Tell your friend to close the door;" she said curtly, "He's letting in a draft." Holmes obligingly shut it quickly and moved into the firelight.

"Miss Anna Latimer, Sherlock Holmes," Watson introduced. Anna returned Holmes' slight nod and turned her eyes back to her doctor.

"How was the funeral?" he asked gently, taking her pulse. She shrugged.

"It was bearable. She was in complete control of everyone, I couldn't stand it. I took the first train home." Watson tsked sympathetically.

"_She_ is Anna's sister in law," he added for Holmes' sake, who took in the information indifferently.

"Was it your brother's funeral, may I ask?" Holmes questioned offhand as he looked around. The drill again:

Anna frowned, "How did you know?" -- Holmes spun around, giving her a deep stare,

"Because," he began, "It was in the Times this morning, and assuming," he continued, "That as a Miss, you are not married, I foresee that it was your brother."

The mourning sister smiled bitterly, "Correct, Mr Holmes. Top marks."

Holmes averted his eyes, "Hunting accident?" he enquired. Anna smiled somewhat bitterly.

"That's what the papers will say, Mr Holmes. But no. My brother was murdered."

* * *

_Yey! First chapter of my luvly rewrite. The more reviews you give me, the quicker I'll repost. Thanx to my beta J.A Lowell and all my old reviewers who are sticking with me!_

_Terriah_


	2. Trains, Swoons and Letters

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_It's all yours!_

* * *

**Trains, Swoons and Letters**

Paddington Station was quiet, that early in the morning. A thick fog had descended on the station, and the porters had placed dim yellow lights along the edges of the platforms, should any passenger be so unlucky to fall over the edge.

Standing alone on platform two was a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in overcoat and tweed trousers. His form could just barely be made out in the smog. At his feet were a small suitcase and an umbrella, both neatly arranged so they could be easily picked up? He raised his head as a whistle was blown on another platform, eyes hidden beneath a plain bowler hat. The features visible appeared handsome and well chiselled, giving a distinct impression of power and authority.

Shortly, a train crawled into the station, issuing billows of steam. No one disembarked, and the man walked briskly forward and pulled open a door. He stepped up into the first class carriage, setting his umbrella and suitcase above him in the luggage rack. Settling back into his seat, he pulled his hat down further over his eyes, to give the impression of sleep.

The train pulled out of Paddington, gaining speed as it left the dark inner streets of London behind under a cloud of smoke. Racing past the outskirts, the train sped into the fields of Surrey. And still the man slept. The train stopped at several stations, adding only as few more passengers who chose to sit in other carriages. When eventually the man did arouse on the borders of Hampshire, he was still alone.

He changed at Alton, boarding the small train bound for the South coast of the county. The ticket collector punched his ticket as he disembarked at Southampton and wished him good day. By now the sun was high in the sky and people milled around, unaware of anything but themselves. He strode briskly up the steps of a hotel facing the sea front, passed the receptionist, who nodded at him with a brisk no nonsense, "Your Lordship."

The man nodded curtly in reply and proceeded up the stairs to the first floor. Glancing along the corridor, he pushed open the first door revealing a black draped woman, who stared out of the window, a beautiful, but cold, expression in her eyes. She didn't even turn her head when the man entered, silently accepting his presence in the room. The man closed the door quickly and came to stand next to her.

"She is back in London," he spoke quietly, refined and elegant.

The woman smiled cruelly, "Good. Everything is in place." Turning to the man, she laid a hand on his arm, and using her other, pulled his head down to meet hers.

* * *

The papers were late, Holmes noted, as he sat down by the fire opposite Watson, taking his coffee from a tray.

"Breakfast Holmes?" Watson asked, waving his fork at a platter of sausages next to him. Holmes shook his head in a disgruntled manor and glanced around dejectedly.

"What time did we arrive back at Baker Street last night, Watson?" he asked, reaching under his chair for yesterdays Times, which wasn't there. Watson shrugged, nonplussed, and pointed at the table, where the Times lay in disarray under a Bunsen burner.

"Around eleven I believe," he said sipping his own coffee. Holmes stood, stretching his arms above his head before walking over to the table under the window. Dismantling his experiment to retrieve the paper, he glanced out of the window, down to the street below, and frowned.

"Watson?" Holmes called.

"What?"

"Were you expecting a patient this morning?" Watson frowned slightly and rising from his chair, crossed to the window.

"No," he confessed, removing the dying pipe from his mouth.

* * *

Down in the street below, Miss Annalese Latimer clambered stiffly out a cab, wincing in pain as she turned to pay the driver. She watched as he drove away into the busy London streets. Then, setting her shoulders, she turned to check the house number before slowly making her way up the steps, clutching at the rail. Each and every breath was came harder than the last, but at last, the door was close.

The door opened before she reached the top to reveal an anxious Watson.

"Miss Latimer!" he began, but she cut him off.

"Pain," she gasped, clutching at his hand, "Everywhere." Holmes appeared behind Watson on the stairs.

"I think it would be advisable to bring her inside Watson," he remarked wryly as the young lady in question fell into a dead faint in their arms.

* * *

"Some have diagnosed it as a form of paralysis, others would call it cancer, but whichever it is, the disease is killing her slowly. A few more years at most is all," Watson paused, then after a deep breath continued, "A cancer of the spinal-cord can loosely be used to describe the condition, it causes pressure on the nerve endings and kills them off. At the same time, the disease spreads through the remainder of the body, eventually taking her life."

Holmes looked across at his friend in pity as Watson took the woman's pulse, the worry lines on his forehead more pronounced than usual.

"How long has she been your patient, Watson?" he asked from the wall on which he leant, taking note of Anna's pallor, worse than it was the previous night. Watson straightened up and turned around to face him.

"A long time. I knew her father when the family lived in London," the doctor said quietly, "He consulted me when my work on the spine became known and after his death, she visited me herself. I've been in touch with her ever since."

It was some time after when she came around, moaning slightly as the light shot into her eyes. As the room came into focus, Anna pulled herself slowly into a sitting position and eyed her surroundings in a slightly dazed stupor. She was lying on a couch beside a cheerfully burning fire in the grate and someone had removed her hat, gloves and coat, laying them on the back of the couch.

"Ahhh, you are awake at last Miss."

Anna jumped. A small, plump woman came into view, clad in a familiar shade of black that Anna was now so accustomed to seeing. Her smiling face peered at Anna with motherly concern.

"Dr Watson and Mr Holmes have gone out, but said they would return with all haste," the woman spoke again, fixing a strand of greying hair behind one ear. She smiled kindly again at the bemused young woman on the couch.

"Would you like a drink of water?" she asked sensing a wave of distress coming from the patient. Anna nodded,

"Yes, please Mrs…?"

"Hudson. Mrs Hudson."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, that would be most lovely" Anna replied thankfully.

She watched as Mrs Hudson left, before reaching for the purse that hung with the rest of her outer clothes. Rummaging through the silk bag, she pulled out a sheaf of paper. Its edges were well thumbed and dog-eared. Anna unfolded it and read again, as if hoping that the contents would have changed. She sighed, knowing that it was the same as it was the last time, but wishing otherwise. Clasping her hands tightly around the papers, Anna awaited the doctor's return.

* * *

"What is it that made you come here at such haste?" Holmes question softly, "Surely someone could have been sent if your ailment was so great?"

Miss Anna shifted uncomfortably in her chair and glanced across at Watson, who nodded his vouch for Holmes' discretion. Anna sighed and turned back to the detective, who sat in a high backed chair, legs crossed, hands folded, head tilted to one side appraisingly.

"I received this letter in the morning post, from my brother's lawyer," Anna indicated the folded piece of paper that now rested between the three on the coffee table. "It states that my brother's wife has cut off my funding and all monies that I was meant to receive from both my brother's will and my father's. Furthermore, all of it will transfer to her." She eyed the paper bitterly until interrupted by Holmes.

"On what grounds did your sister-in-law compromise your inheritance?" he asked softly, leaning forward in his chair and resting his chin on the tips of his clasped fingers. Anna frowned.

"I do not fully understand as I am not legally versed. She shouldn't have been able to contest the will without proving that both my brother and father were not of," she tsked and searched for the word, clicking her fingers as if they might remind her.

"Sound?" Watson interjected.

"Yes that's it, of sound mind to leave their money to me. It is not as if she didn't benefit. She got the estate, which I would have gladly taken in exchange for the money."

Holmes, meanwhile, had picked up the letter from the table, and was now reading it, lounging back in his chair. He drew it close to his nose, concentrating. Across from him, Anna watched with curiosity and Watson with familiar admiration.

"Your brother's lawyer," he glanced at the paper, "Mr Talbot, is fond of tobacco and coffee?" Anna nodded, a small smile playing in the corners of her mouth.

"Yes. He says it his vice. A pipe in the evening and a cup of coffee in the morning," she smiled fully at this remark, the memory still clear in her mind, before sinking into silence. Holmes observed this silently, before turning his interest back to the letter. He examined its contents once more, paying particular attention to the last paragraph.

"Did you note the personal detail Mr Talbot added in conclusion?" he asked offhandedly, waving the letter at Anna. She nodded wordlessly, raising her eyes to meet his own.

There was a moment's pause between them before Holmes quickly stood, leaving the letter on the table, and moved away to the bookcase that stood against the far wall. Anna looked down at her hands, blinking.

Watson, feeling somewhat in the dark, reached for the ominous letter and proceeded to read forthwith;

* * *

_Dear Miss Annalese Latimer_

_I regret to inform you that due to the nature of your brother's death, the late Thomas Latimer, all monies originally made payable to you, will now be withheld until further notice. The other beneficiary of your brother's Last Will and Testament, shall receive your share, unless he or she decides to amend or make personal arrangements._

_In reference to the monies you received in the Last Will and Testament of your late father, Charles Latimer, they too will be withheld, as they were controlled by your brother. A sum of 100 pounds will be given to you as compensation for sudden retraction of said allowances._

_It is on a personal note that I add the unforeseen nature of these events. I, myself, was not expecting or had heard of such an amendment in your father's will that made your inheritance controllable by your brother or his beneficiaries._

_It is with greatest sympathy and the hope that you will come to my offices in New Street to discuss your current circumstances._

_Your faithful friend_

_Talbot_

_New Street Law_

_Kensington_

* * *

Watson let out a low whistle and rested a hand on Miss Annalese Latimer's shoulder.

"So," he began, "They're using his suicide as grounds for unsound body and mind. Cunning." He looked down at Anna as she stared at where Holmes had been.

"Why did you come here?" he asked.

Anna sighed "You are one of the few friends I have in London," Watson smiled, "And I've decided to put that last £100 to good use." At this she looked across at Holmes, who was pulling books off the shelves, flicking through them, and finally throwing mercilessly onto the floor.

"I work at a fixed rate, Miss Latimer. Are you sure you can afford both my services and the means to survive?" Holmes spoke in a clipped, indifferent tone which he usually reserved for people who were completely incompetent, not for young women.

Anna paused, ready to speak but unable to, her breath coming in short and shallow gasps as a hacking cough raked through her body. Watson quickly got up from his chair to kneel beside her. Placing a hand on her back, he directed her breathing, putting pressure on her back when she had to breathe in. Slowly, she began to regain a little colour in her cheeks and was able to murmur her thanks. Watson nodded his head, pulling his chair closer to hers, ready to assist her again if necessary.

Holmes didn't dislike women. He distrusted them. They were, to him, weaker and of a different nature than men. He treated them no differently as clients but there was always a sharper tone in his voice, as if he knew that only another man could understand what he was saying.

Anna seemed to have picked up on this, and her grey eyes were hard.

"I'll manage, Mr Holmes," her voice shaking slightly, but her tone firm. Holmes snapped his book shut, twisting round on one foot to look at her.

"In that case," he said, "You have employed my services."

* * *

_And there goes chapter 2. Six whole pages._

_For all those liable to question the knowledge of 19th century cancer, I researched it thoroughly! _

_Thanks again to my amazingly cool beta J.A.Lowell. She is my saviour! Now review!_

**BaskervilleBeauty** _thank you! Have taken note and put in lots of spaces!_

**J. A. Lowell **_Thanks to you to! I really appreciate all this grammatical and languages help. I've double spaced, put in spaces between characters speech and separated all the description! Is it any better?_

_**Sparx **My old friend! Yes Anna is going to be cool. Not sure if Holmes will like it though._

_Thanx again for reading._


	3. Farewells, Goodbyes and Sorrows

Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_It's all yours!_

_P.s. dear readers, I do believe I said that Anna had pale blonde hair, but I decided it didn't really suit her. So I apologize for the hair change!_

* * *

The man watched, propped up on one elbow as the woman rolled her stockings over her knee and clipped them into place.

"You don't have to go," he thought, wishing she could hear him. Almost as if he had voiced the words, she paused to stroke his stubbled cheek. He tilted his head into her hand, enjoying her soft touch against his skin. He followed her hands intently, aware at the same time of her face, her high cheekbones aglow with self satisfied glory after the night's excursions. The bed, on which they had fallen, was a mess of twisted sheets, and he noticed, to his chagrin, that his legs were thoroughly entangled within them. Leaning over she kissed him chastely on the lips before crawling backwards off the end of the bed to recover her dress from the bare floorboards.

The room was empty apart from the white bed, pushed against the wall. The wood of the floorboards could splinter bare feet. The walls were a deceiving, antiseptic white, which was mirrored by the curtains and dust sheets that lined the room. In this snowy void, they had made love whilst the wind had blown in off the sea and through the open window.

Standing now, the man proceeded to help her dress, tightening all the ribbons and laces she couldn't reach herself. When the black dress was in place once more, they faced each other, as if unprepared for what should come next.

The woman made the first move, crossing the room to the door. Placing a hand on the door knob, she turned and graced him with a slight, almost coquettish smile before leaving. He merely raised his hand in farewell and began searching for his own clothes, the tenderness gone from his face as business once more intruded upon his mind.

The entirety of this exchange was made in silence.

Downstairs in the lobby, the woman adjusted her hat and veil in the mirror that conveniently hung by the door before delicately slipping her hands into the silk gloves supplied by the doorman. She raised her head as she opened the door and stepped out into the street and into a waiting carriage, the perfect picture of genteel composure. One swift glance back at the building was the only flaw in her calm exterior, as she settled into her seat. The horses were whipped up and soon they were speeding along the front, past the shipping yards and out toward the cliff roads.

Alone in the carriage, the woman shivered, and drew the furs up around her neck. Fingering her lips, she glanced out of the window, watching the gorse and heather move silently in the wind, against the backdrop of the grey ocean. The opposite window provided no more cheerful view. A storm was gathering, and she could just barely perceive the dark line of the forest that gently merged into the growing darkness.

She sighed as the coach turned away from the sea, towards the forest and home. The rain finally descended as they entered the thick trees, their bases concealed by mossy undergrowth that softened the sounds of the carriages passage. Above her, the coachman swore and cursed the rain, knowing that he would have spent hours in the stable, drying both the tack and horses.

Still they drove on, through the rain and mud. Presently, they veered from the main road and after a time, the trees began to thin out. The coach wheels clattered as wood met the cobbled street of a small village.

The villagers all glanced up as the carriage rumbled by; a few murmurings followed it past the village green. Some old women crossed themselves against the devil, whereas the young men all tipped their hats. Whatever the case, the Lady of the Big House rarely came up from London.

The woman had fallen asleep some hours ago but she awoke at the passing noise from the dwellings. Looking out of the window, she saw the looming shape of a house, a light shining in the windows. She smiled. Home.

* * *

Mr Arthur Talbot was not a man easily shaken, but today his skin was unnaturally pale and his hand shook when he took up a pen. A proud man, and a large one, he would permit no one to see him in his nervous condition. He had left instructions with his clerk not to enter without dire need, and at his own peril. All clients were to be directed to Mr Grossing across the hall. The clerk had obliged upon seeing his employer huddled in the far corner of his mighty office.

Talbot's hand kept reaching for the flask in his left breast pocket and when that had been decanted into his large stomach; he took up the bottle from the bottom-most drawer on the right-hand side of his desk. This would, he concluded, continue throughout the morning until some kind of composure had been gained.

The source of his nerves sat folded on his desk in the form of a letter. Sealed and signed, it looked no different than the other heaps of other papers that singly would have been manageable, but seemed to have coalesced to form a small mountain atop the lawyer's desk. But once the contents were read and understood, the innocent-looking letter became a most perplexing matter that could turn even the largest of stomachs.

Around midday, Mr Talbot stretched his legs and strolled to the window. Feeling slightly better, he looked imperiously down on the street below as he lit his pipe. And promptly dropped it, singeing a hole into his Chinese rug.

A young man stood watching his window, hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth and bright eyes fixed upon the precise spot where Talbot stood. Knowing he had been seen, the young man touched a hand to his hat and pushed himself off the lamp post on which he had been leaning. He headed straight for the front door.

* * *

Anna gingerly set a foot onto the pavement, leaning on Watson for support as he helped her down from the cab. Smiling, Watson offered her his arm and led them along the street that bustled with people, rich and poor alike making their way about their noon-time errands.

"What number does Mr Talbot reside at?" Watson asked Anna who had been silent throughout the morning, occasionally sighing and staring fixedly at things.

"Anna?"

She shook her head, coming out of her blank daze.

"I'm sorry John. I'm still a little weak from yesterday and not quite awake." Watson looked down at her affectionately as she smiled at him, noting that it was past the eleventh hour and casually wondering when she did wake up. Quite suddenly realizing how inappropriate was this thought that had played out in his head, the doctor found himself blushing slightly.

"As long as you're feeling better, I couldn't care any less," Watson commented turning his attention back to the house numbers, aware that his gaze had lingered than it should have. Anna turned away too, but tightened her hold on his arm slightly, afraid that this reassuring presence would fall way as so many before had.

They continued in companionable silence, somewhat slower than the other pedestrians as every now and then Anna would wince with pain and have to pause to catch her breath. Watson knew better than to inquire after her health during such episodes. It annoyed her and generally landed him in disgrace. He stood over her and ensured that no busy passer-by would blindly bludgeon into her.

On arrival at the New Street Law firm, they were ushered into a small waiting room by an anxious looking clerk, who stood with clasped hands and told them in hushed tones that, "Mr Talbot had a visitor and would be finished soon."

So they waited. Watson slowly ambled in front of the fire, while Anna perched herself in one of the chairs that ringed the wall. The fire threw shadows onto her face that played their way across her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was tired and soft. "How old are you now, John?" Her head rested against the wall, her skin and the whiter wallpaper almost blending together to become one.

Watson smiled ruefully, and replied softly so as not to shatter the warm silence, "Old."

Anna smiled and laughed, tucking a wayward strand on tawny hair behind her ear. "You're not old," she said softly, when her laughter had subsided, "Just two years closer to the end than when we first met."

Watson's smile faded a little, and he shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of how to continue. He opted for a cheerful tact: "Come now Miss Anna, you are not yet one and twenty. The end is far for you!"

Watson spoke briskly but inside he was filled with worry. He knew that the chance of Anna living to see her own children born was slim, not unless her health improved drastically.

On the arrival of the clerk, Watson pushed the thought to the back of his head, reminding it to stay there. They rose and were shown down a long corridor that had a multitude of doors leading off of it. At the very end of the corridor was a glass door, embossed with the gilded gold letters "A. Talbot. QC."

As they approached, it opened to reveal a young man, smartly dressed in a casual business suit, hat clasped in one hand, and an unlit cigarette in the other. Bright eyes glinted merrily in his good humoured face and his mouth was quirked into a slight smile.

"Until another time, Mr Talbot," he called out behind him, as he caught sight of the approaching party and held the door open with a long arm. He winked mischievously at Anna whole smiled demurely and stifled laughter at Watson's slight bristle of resentment. Laying a reassuring hand on his arm, she carried on through the open door and went in, followed by the doctor, who grumbled his thanks to the departing client.

"Anytime," the young man replied, his eyes following them into the room before he sauntered down the hall.

"Anna, my dear!" Mr Talbot was a round, bearded middle aged man, who, as Holmes had predicted, was stuffing a pipe and on the desk next to him was an empty coffee cup. Watson smiled slightly to himself and waited to be introduced. Anna kissed Talbot on both cheeks and took Watson's hand, pulling him forward.

"Mr Talbot, this is my friend and doctor, John Watson," Anna introduced, smiling genuinely as Watson shook hands with the lawyer.

"A pleasure, I must say," Talbot said briskly, giving a distinct impression of the opposite. "Anna has spoken of you with great admiration."

Watson raised an eyebrow at Anna's faint blush and turned back to the other man. "Again, she speaks of you with highest confidence." He was aware that he was lying through his teeth, having never heard the man in question spoken of.

Talbot smiled nervously and indicated that they should sit down. There was an uncomfortable silence before, "Are you unwell, Mr Talbot?" Anna asked, concern tinting her voice, "You look somewhat paler than usual."

Talbot, who was easing himself into a large chair, paused slightly before replying in a jovial tone, "No, no my dear, I am quite well. I've just had a little unexpected news, that's all."

"Nothing serious I hope?" Watson inquired as he settled himself in the chair beside Anna. Talbot shook his head and pulled some papers onto his desk, all of which were bound with string and knotted in several places.

"This," Talbot began heavily, a mundane air creeping into his voice, "Is all the legal papers related to your case, and the Wills of both your father and brother. The injunction that the opposition have put forward was that your brother was of unsound body and mind, which concurs with his suicide. In relation to your father's Will, Thomas was the sole dispensary. He controlled the monies received by all other beneficiaries, such as your allowance. As an impending and very likely permanent arrangement," sincere regret flooded into his voice, "All monies were stopped to the beneficiaries of both Wills, and will be gained by Thomas's Next of Kin."

"Which is me, surely?" Anna said frowning, her grey eyes dark with confusion.

Talbot sighed. "If only that were so Miss. Your older sister is no longer with us and you are younger than his wife. By that new married woman's act, she has the right to claim whatever she sees as hers."

Anna slumped slightly in her chair, her face white with disbelief. Watson reached over and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. She smiled briefly at him in thanks and then looked back at Talbot, who gave her a brief glance of pity, before tapping a sheaf of papers into order.

"How much money do I have, with the current circumstances taken into account?" She asked slowly, meeting Talbot's eye and holding him in her gaze. The lawyer swallowed and levelled the edges of the papers.

"I believe the number to be around £150, including the compensative money given to you by the opposition."

Anna drew in a sharp breath. Her face had gone deathly white. The doctor drew her up, and was preparing to leave. "What of shares, stocks? Are there any I can sell, liquidate?" she interrupted as Watson attempted to usher her out.

"Mr Talbot," the doctor said, firmly propelling the woman towards the door, as he gave a hurried parting nod.

Talbot mouthed wordlessly, not unlike a beached whale, at such a rude dismissal and stood objectionably. "Now look here, sir, Miss Latimer is my client!"

"And my patient," Watson interjected, "So kindly excuse us." He slipped his arms around her waist, and half-carried her out the door and down into the street.

* * *

Meanwhile, whilst the rest of the household was otherwise engaged, Holmes had begun his research into the Latimer family. When Mrs Hudson had arrived to ask if he would be dining in for lunch, she was welcomed by a scene of devastation, destruction, and paper. Books on British nobility lay in heaps on the floor, cuttings from magazines and newspapers dating back at least 10 years were pinned to the wall, foolscap filled with apparently random notes dotted the furniture, and Holmes himself stood in the midst of all of this, playing his violin. She blinked hard twice, gave one long nod, closed her mouth, and left to go about her business. Mr. Holmes was, quite obviously, busy.

His morning had been spent in trawling through dog eared books, crumbling parchments, reading on the rights of nobility, and perusing bills and magazine cuttings. His collection of papers had once again told him all he needed to know. He considered himself more than tolerably informed upon the Latimer family, and probably knew more than they themselves did.

Lord Henry Latimer, Anna's father, had passed away from illness some time ago, shortly followed by her brother, the Honourable Thomas. The Hon. had been married to the bankrupt Lady Caroline Northman. There was a sister too, a Duchess formerly of Scotland, and currently untraceable as she now lived in India. The Latimer children's mother had died in birthing Anna, for which Her Grace had blamed the youngest child. _Possible motive, although unlikely_ was the legend appended to her name in Holmes' controlled hand. There was no record of a return from the east.

Playing Bach's smoothly flowing _Violin concerto_, he mused upon the relationships between the family. His fingers entered in to _Gigue_ and still he thought. He turned the motives and suspicions over in his mind. He then thought of his client's relationship with Watson. There was a deep friendship there, bound by the promise he had made to Miss Latimer's father, a liability possibly.

The telephone rang, a strange alien noise jangling amongst the soothing notes. Holmes sighed in exasperation and walking over to the source of the noise, picked it up the ear and mouth piece and snapped into it, "Hallo?"

"Dr Watson?" The voice on the other end was curt and professional.

"No. Sherlock Holmes, I lodge with Dr Watson."

"Oh, perhaps you could help us then. We've had a patient brought in by the name of Miss Anna Latimer."

Holmes frowned. "What's happened to her?"

The voice on the other end sensed the change in Holmes' voice and continued warily, "You know her then? She was brought in by her housekeeper."

"Why didn't you contact Dr Watson? He works at the hospital."

The voice sighed resignedly, "Dr Watson left some time before Miss Latimer was brought in. We require someone to collect her at once, as her housekeeper left a while back."

"Oh very well then," Holmes muttered, disgruntled, "I'll be there within the hour."

Slamming down the receiver, he pulled his hat off its stand and marched to the door. "Mrs Hudson," he called, "I shall return shortly with a guest, please do be prepared." With that he departed, frightening a pigeon that had settled on the railings outside the flat.

* * *

"This is becoming ridiculous," Holmes said dismissively as Watson appeared next to him, standing at the foot of Anna's bed. Lying on it, she resembled a smiling corpse, blending into the sheets. Holmes continued, "Miss Latimer shall lodge with us at Baker Street, under Mrs Hudson's supervision." Anna stared up in protest with an open mouth, only to be quailed by the detective's fierce glare. She looked across at Watson for support but he just shrugged amiably and casually sauntered down the ward, whistling softy.

Mr A. Talbot grasped his whiskey bottle in one hand and tilted a photo on his desk upwards, towards the light.

"I'm sorry my old friend," he wept softly, swigging at the bottle between sobs.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Talbot choked on the drink. Coughing loudly, he returned the bottle to its customary desk drawer. He shuffled a few papers in an attempt to look engaged, and schooled his features to behave themselves.

"Come in," he called.

The door creaked slowly open. Light filled the darkened office, silhouetting the figure that lounged in the doorway.

"Oh it's you," Talbot said with relief, bending his head to retrieve his bottle from the drawer.

He never raised his head again.

* * *

_Love to my beta J a Lowell_

_Love to my new reviewers!_

_Love to my old ones!_

_Check this out! 6whole pages:D:D:D:D_

_Anyway, thank you to my reviewers; I love you all to pieces! And I still want to know which you prefer for future reference …………._

_Watson/Oc or Holmes/oc?_

_Msncutey-thank you! I hope you enjoy this chappy!_

_Cheerfulwriter-anything is possible. And in all honesty, I'm in dilemma!_

_QueenOfSpain-what will become of Anna indeed! I hope this chappy helped!_


	4. Photographs, Bodies and Dreams

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_I had a review from another site asking me what year the story was set and I realized I had forgotten to write it in. So until I do_

_The year is 1882, Holmes being born, according to Doyle, in 1854 and Watson being born in 1852. And for those who want to know Moriarty was born inn 1846!_

_Anna is, as I told you in the last chapter, entering her early twenties._

_**REVAMP NOTES:** A big thank you to all those who have been reviewing and awaiting this chapter. I'm in the middle of taking my GCSE's so I'm kinda busy but I'm going to try and get this all edited and ready to roll within the next three months, which isn't as long as it sounds! Trust me! _

_Am currently tackling this editing with an Easter egg to cheer myself up._

* * *

The man woke alone. The cold shroud of his sheets surrounded him, encircling him in an artic grasp. He pushed them off irately, and then laid still, muscles still tired from the previous day's journey. He sat up suddenly, and pulled a red, brocaded dressing from the end of the bed where it had unceremoniously been draped the night before and shrugged it on.

He strode into the sitting room, and noted that the butler's timing was impeccable: a steaming cup of coffee waited on the table. Next to the coffee were two folded pieces of paper. He took the coffee, and ignored the two messages. He frowned as his feet encountered cold hardwood, and he returned to the bedroom for a pair of carpet-slippers.

He stepped into the slippers, and then returned to the sitting room, where he glanced at the mornings papers, propped elegantly against a silver coffee pot. Having read the headlines and knowing he could no longer put off the messages that still lay on the table, the man disdainfully picked them up. One, he noted, was from the woman. He could smell her rose scent seeping from the crisp paper, strong as it had been the previous morning. Sighing, he read the note with slight amusement at her sentimentality before turning to the other.

This, he could tell, was from his butler. The perfectly folded corners and straight edged hand writing was information enough and it's contents more so. The man's face changed quickly as he read. Frowning once more, he left his coffee and the essence of rose descending to the world below.

* * *

The butler moved past as the man entered the library, a nervous, twitchy expression on his face. No doubt he was discomfited by the visitor's bright blue eyes that were darting about the room. The note was evidence that the butler had recognized the young man, despite his attire of coarse trousers and tattered shirt. He dismissed further idle thoughts, and strode into the room.

The younger man rose to greet him, but was waved impatiently back into his seat. He was of a handsome nature, his dark hair curling slightly and a carefree smile lit up the corners of his mouth.

"What news," the first asked briskly, sitting down into a high backed chair before been thrown an envelope by the other man.

"Taken yesterday evening," Blue eyes informed as the older man slit open the envelope, pulling out a large photograph. The man hissed angrily.

"Will this interfere with things?" Blue eyes asked quietly. The man shrugged, throwing the photograph onto the antique marble table between them, after which he spoke somewhat bitterly

"We can only be sure of one thing. If he is involved, we will have to either delay or hasten the remainder of our operation. Be ready," Both men stood, and the younger moved to leave.

As if on second thought, the older suddenly called after his informant.

"How did you manage to get this?" He waved the photo. Blue eyes grinned and tapped the side of his nose. The older man smiled, and waved him away.

The man resumed his seat, and thoughtfully lit a cigar. For a time, he idly drummed his fingers upon the photograph, considering its subjects. Finally, when the cigar had burnt down, he ground it into the photograph, obscuring the image of a tall hawkish gentleman was offering his arm to young woman who must have been moving at the point of exposure for her appearance was blurred and irregular. But her eye's were clear and steady as they starred up into the face of the man.

* * *

A flash of magnesium blinded Holmes momentarily, as he stepped into through the doorway of the New Street firm. Clerks and secretaries filled the corridors, making it a struggle to reach the room at the end of the hall.

Pushing past the photographer, Holmes moved to stand by a small ratty, greying, man whose tired eyes watched the detective's entrance from where he leant against the wall by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Well Lestrade?" Holmes asked jadedly, observing the scene before him. Lestrade frowned.

"Your attitude towards life never fails to move me Holmes," he replied cuttingly, pushing himself off the wall and walking over to the desk. Holmes followed, amused, his hands clasped behind his back.

"He was struck on the back of the head by a paper weight from his clerk's desk," Lestrade said, jerking his head towards the door. Holmes stepped forward and gazed down upon the body of Mr A. Talbot, lawyer.

The blood on the back of the head was dry and cracked, suggesting the blow occurred the previous night. One hand was hanging in a bottom drawer of the desk; Holmes leaned closer, noting the bottle of whiskey tipped precariously at an angle. Raising an eyebrow, he turned to Lestrade.

"You noticed the whiskey bottle?" he asked. Lestrade looked almost offended.

"Of course!" was the indignant reply. Holmes smiled indulgently and stepped back from the body.

"He was bending down to get the bottle when he was struck," Holmes began, "He must have known his killer or not have heard him come in the room, to have turned his back on him." Lestrade nodded and motioned for two policemen to come forward but Holmes waved them back, crouching down.

"There is a cigarette butt on the floor. Let us hope it is not squashed beyond recognition after the boots of your officers tramped over the room." He turned back to the body and stared intently down at the wound. "How very odd," he murmured to himself.

Lestrade coughed loudly once again indicated that the constables should come forward. "Come on then, lads, let's get this body down to the morgue before the press break through the line at the front."

Holmes glanced up as the source of his musings was moved from his view point and found that Lestrade had fixed him with an accusing look.

"What?" Holmes asked impassively, rising to his feet. Lestrade drew in a deep breath and pointed his finger at Holmes.

"No secrets this time, no hiding information," he ordered gruffly, a slight pink tinge rushing to his cheeks. Holmes raised an eyebrow and set a hand on the Chief Inspector's shoulder.

"My dear Lestrade, as if I would?" He smiled briefly before watching straight faced as the body departed under the supervision of four young officers who were straining under the enormous weight the corpse was creating, "But for now I return to Baker Street. Send for me when the surgeon begins."

* * *

_The room was pale blue in colour and the walls seemed oddly blurred as sunlight from the street outside poured in through the sash window. The maid, who had ushered her in, had bobbed and disappeared back out of the door. A man rose abruptly from the chaise and stood expectantly to attention._

"_Thomas?" she could hear herself speaking. The man could have been handsome had his face not been so thin and gaunt. He smiled at her, stretching the skin around his mouth and eyes._

"_Hello Annie," he whispered, opening his arms. She embraced him slowly, half afraid he would crumble in her arms. He clung to her, stroking his hand against her hair. She pulled away to stare at him._

"_Thomas, what are you doing here?" she asked, dawning anxiety spreading across her face. Thomas took her hands and squeezed them reassuringly, pulling her down on to the chaise._

"_You have to come home," he began._

* * *

Holmes closed the door quietly behind him. Watson had already left to see his morning's patients and he could hear Mrs Hudson humming to herself in the kitchen. Shrugging off his coat, he ascended the stairs, careful to avoid the third from the top which creaked loudly and laid great black thing on the stair rail.

* * *

"_What?" she asked, her eyes wide with astonishment. Thomas shook his head fervently, pulling at her hands._

"_You are not listening Annie," _

_She shook his hands off and rose, the folds of her dress rustling._

"_I will not listen to such madness Thomas,"_

* * *

Loosening his tie, Holmes set a hand on the door handle to the sitting room and paused. He could hear faint noises. Female murmurs. _Anna must be awake,_ he assumed, opening the door.

* * *

_She walked to the door and pulled it open. A forest greeted her. Tall, dark and overpowering. Her mouth opened in wonder as the fresh scent of pine filled her head._

* * *

"Anna wake up. Wake up!"

* * *

_She took a step forward and fell heavily, but where the ground should have been there was nothing. Just the never ending darkness that rushed up around her. She reached out her hands, searching for something to catch onto. Nothing, only a face somewhere above her, watching her remorsefully._

* * *

Her arms flew around Holmes, surprising him. She clung to him sobbing, her eyes closed tightly as if it hurt to open them. Sinking down onto the sofa beside her, Holmes rested her head on his shoulder, stroking her hair with one hand, rocking her gently.

"It's alright," he murmured slowly, "It was just a dream." He pulled back to look at her. Her face was tear stained and distressed, as she stared at Holmes with a mixture of lingering horror and relief.

"Just a dream," he said again, touching a cool hand to her flushed face.

"Thank you," she whispered, gratitude flooding her voice. Holmes shifted uncomfortably. It had been instinct that had allowed him to act as he had and now he was at a loss for what to do. Slowly, he took Anna's hands from his arms and clasped them tightly, before resting them upon her lap.

"Would you care to talk about it?" Holmes asked briskly, moving to sit in his chair by the fire. Anna collapsed against the back of the couch and half closed her eyes, her breathing shallow and uneven.

"Miss Latimer?" he asked again. Anna shook her head and drew her legs up onto her seat. Holmes observed this position for a moment before turning to the fire and together they slipped into silence.

It wasn't until Watson's return an hour or so later that they spoke.

* * *

Watson entered the room and raised his eyebrows. Anna and Holmes seemed to had put a fair amount of distance between them, Anna apparently dozing on the chair under the window and Holmes in his usual chair, staring into the fire, his face contorted with thought. Watson coughed. Anna jumped and opened her eyes. Watson smiled at her bewilderment and proceeded to undo his outer layer. Holmes, of course, had not even twitched.

"It's freezing out there," Watson said loudly, chaffing his hands together and hurrying to the fire. Holmes looked up at him, head rested on arched fingers.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," Holmes said carefully choosing his words, aware of Anna, who was sitting up in confusion.

"What news? You did not mention anything to me," she said accusingly. Watson glanced at her and then back at Holmes.

"Go on," Watson said tiredly. Holmes flexed his fingers prior to beginning.

"Earlier this morning I was called to New Street to examine the body of one Arthur Talbot."

He heard Anna's sharp intake of breath, and was aware of Watson walking towards her. He continued.

"He was murdered. Blow to the back of the head, and….."

"Holmes," Watson snapped, "Is this entirely necessary?" He was holding Anna's hand as she stared at a spot on the wall. Holmes ignored him, and continued to talking, now almost to himself.

"The killer must have been behind him, judging by the angle at which he was hit. The first blow from the paper weight wouldn't have killed him; a further blow must have been dealt."

Holmes had begun pacing the beside the fire, one elbow resting on the other arm, as he ran a hand over his chin. Anna stopped staring at the wall and turned her gaze upon him. She watched as he continued to pace up and down, her mouth open slightly with uncertainty. Watson only frowned, his opinions on Holmes's humane feelings dropping to negative numbers.

"Holmes," he called. Holmes grunted his acknowledgement, but continued his attempts to wear the carpet through.

"I'm going to the morgue, are you coming?" Holmes grunted again, turning on his next lap of the carpet towards the door. Watson turned back to Anna and knelt down.

"You're to stay here and read a book or something," he insisted firmly, silencing her protests, "I'll send Mrs Hudson up when we leave." Anna sank back into to her chair, annoyed, and childishly refused to speak.

* * *

The door closed loudly behind the doctor, jolting Anna into loneliness. She shivered and hugged herself, looking up out of the window at the rain drops that trickled down the glass. Outside in the street below, Watson and Holmes were climbing into a cab, pulling their overcoats up around their ears.

Holmes was about to step up into the cab, when he felt eyes upon him. He glanced back up at the house window and saw Anna watching him, her hair haloed by the firelight. She placed a hand against the window, and watched as they drove away, Holmes was haunted by the sad grey eyes as that followed them into the distance.

Unbeknownst to Holmes or Anna another pair of eyes watched them: bright blue in contrast to the rain clouds that loomed overhead. Those eyes saw the young woman stand at the window for what seemed like an eternity, before moving away. He knew that those grey eyes would jeopardise everything. Whereas his were imprinted on so many memories, hers would leave their mark on hearts.

* * *

_Loves JA Lowell, my ever patient beta!_

_All of which I dislike! I really found writing this chapter hard, I hope it don't show too bad!_

_Like the Holmes Anna bit? And the arrival of our blue eyes stranger! Lol. _

_See u all soon, more reviews please!_

_**Outofivanhoe:** I agree bout the plot thing! Neva fear, this one is all planned out, opinions are for future stories! As u can see, I have a new **beta**__things can only get betta!_

_**Sparx:** lol I agree, you're right :P_

_**Queenofspain:** Never fear they shall! I like hearing what you guys think, it's interesting to get the conflicting opinions!_


	5. Morgues, Lullabies and Invitations

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol also eat couscous! C'est grande! And go mourn the loss of Doctor Who. Am mortified._

_I'd like to pay homage to my beta JA Lowell. She is a treasure!_

_Also I was going to write this poem in somewhere but the time period wasn't right so it's going in my little note._

* * *

How clear, how lovely bright,

How beautiful to sight

Those beams of morning play;

How heaven laughs out with glee

Where, like a bird set free,

Up from the eastern sea

Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,

No more shall yield to wrong,

Shall squander life no more;

Days lost, I know not how,

I shall retrieve them now;

Now I shall keep the vow

I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies

How heavily it dies

Into the west away;

Past touch and sight and sound

Not further to be found,

How hopeless under ground

Falls the remorseful day.

* * *

Anna sat down upon the bed carefully, observing the boxed contents of her room. There was not much here that was hers, the furniture was owned by the boarding house, the bed linen was borrowed as was the bed stead itself. A few boxes and two trunks contained her life, a pitiful pile by the door. 

One trunk was to depart with her shortly for Baker Street and the rest of the boxes would have to come later. She had settled her rent, said a few farewells and now she sat waiting for Dr Watson.

A brief knock on the door signalled the doctor's arrival. Anna rose stiffly and moved into the lounge and toward the door. She was unable to contain a small start of surprise upon seeing Holmes standing in the threshold.

"Oh, Mr Holmes," she said, recovering, "I was expecting Doctor Watson."

"He was unfortunately detained with another patient," Holmes' apology was faintly sarcastic, and Anna suspected that he felt the circumstances were unfortunate for both of them.

He lifted the trunk with surprising ease and took it down to the waiting cab prior to returning for Anna who was standing outside her old rooms, hat in hand.

"I would be very grateful if you could assist me down the stairs," she smiled, "I'm still struggling with them." Holmes offered her an arm and when she nearly tripped he placed a hand on her back and gently eased her down the remaining steps. Although he seemed to regret having invited her to stay at Baker Street, Anna could tell that his opinions did not colour his actions, for his entire demeanour was that of a gentleman.

* * *

"He was hit with a square edged object," the police surgeon was saying as Holmes pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind to concentrate, waving the report at Watson, "The paper weight is too round to leave that kind of indentation. Sorry you had to come again this morning." The surgeon, Bryce was his name, walked over to a sink in the corner and began rubbing his hands and arms with the contents of a bottle. His apology had been in reference to Watson and Holmes's previous visit the night before, when he had not been present. 

Setting down the bottle, he placed his hands above a candle where they caught fire, fuelled by the liquid, which could have only been alcohol.

"It must have been a long object if one considers the nature of the injury and the force at which it was conducted," Holmes commented from his place against the wall, one arm supporting the other so his chin could rest on one hand. Bryce shrugged, running his hands under a tap before drying them on an unfortunate person's coat which hung on a peg by the sink.

"It would make sense," he agreed, "Though it was a clean blow, indicating a thin rod of sorts. Perhaps a fire stoker?" Holmes nodded thoughtfully.

"What were the contents of his stomach?" Watson asked, flipping through the report. Bryce came over and pointed at a mark halfway down a page.

"Whiskey," he added for Holmes benefit, "Probably killed him more quickly. He would have felt no pain, the number of drams that were inside of him." Holmes raised an eyebrow at this remark, and looked the surgeon in the eye for a long moment,

"He's still dead Doctor, either way, he's still dead."

* * *

"_You must come home Anna,"_

Anna stirred, her eyes fluttering open to stare at the white ceiling, her breath shaky.

_The forest called to her, beckoning._

The dream was always the same; it appeared to her whenever she closed her eyes.

_Her brother called her name, desperately searching._

She shivered. Her brother's eyes, they haunted her, there when she closed her eyes and there again when she awoke safe in her chair. Shaking her head, she pulled herself into a sitting position and reached to where the book she had been reading had fallen.

She laughed quietly to herself. It must have been the book that had caused her to drift off. Like all the other books in the room, it was tediously boring. She had picked it at random from the shelf, and discovered that it was a series of dissertations upon various types of mental illness and their effect on the human body. Holmes knew nothing of Austen, that much was apparent.

She wouldn't have bothered to read it at all, except that Dr. Watson had suggested that a book might help pass the time during their absence. She had pulled it from the shelf with the childishly sarcastic comment that it would make difficult reading due to the lack of pictures. Holmes had looked as thought he might agree, but the doctor had merely smiled, and steered him out the door.

Anna sighed and closed the book with a snap, shattering the silence. She was not happy with this arrangement. But no one else would take her. She had little or no money, friends that made excuses and little or nothing to strive for. Every hope and dream she had once possessed was gone, sunken into the ground.

"Miss Anna?" Anna raised her head and looked up. Mrs Hudson was at door, her black dress blocking the view of the corridor.

"There is a visitor for you," she said sniffing. Anna frowned confused before a young girl pushed her way past the older woman, who rolled her eyes.

"Eliza!" Anna smiled, standing as quickly as she could. Eliza, her former maid, rushed forward, her mouth open slightly in horror.

"You sit right back down again Miss Anna, I won't have you in pain on my account." She plumped up the cushions before settling Anna back into them. Sitting opposite her, Eliza smiled broadly and indicated with a jerk of her head the door by which she'd entered.

"I brought your things over from Whitehall, the old housekeeper took 'em." Eliza's touch of cockney came flooding into her voice as she spoke, somehow lighting up her face. Anna smiled her thanks and pulled her feet back up onto the couch.

"Are you well Eliza, and your mother, what of her?" she asked. Eliza nodded dismissively and leant forward, her bright eyes shining mischievously.

"Never mind them!" she grinned, "What's these two gents like? Handsome are they?" Anna laughed, suddenly glad of Eliza's frank nature and natural curiosity.

"You've seen both before when they came to visit me last Wednesday." Eliza sat back in disappointment. Anna smiled and asked after the rest of her old household but found that there was little to be heard, so after half an hour Eliza departed, leaving Anna to put some order to her belongings.

* * *

Watson and Holmes returned to three neatly stacked piles of various objects and Miss Latimer dozing amidst them. She awoke briefly to rummage in a pile and throw a cigar holder at Watson, who tried to make her indulge in some afternoon tea, but to no avail as she slipped into sleep once more. 

When she awoke, Watson was gone.

"John?" she called softly, her eyes unaccustomed to the light.

"Out," came a reply from the vicinity of the fire, "Emergency at the hospital." Holmes stood before the fireplace, violin resting on his shoulder, bow hovering just above the strings.

"Oh," Anna murmured. She noticed the violin then, and continued after a moment, "Were you playing? Please continue." Holmes nodded his thanks and the bow came down on the strings, filling the room with Bach. Ann listened with eyes half open, her breathing settling around the slow plaintive sounds.

Holmes barely noted the other presence in the room. When he was playing, he was at his most vulnerable yet at the same time, his mind was so clear and able. Even with the help of drugs, never could he fall into such a pure and clear a mood as this.

He was interrupted by a quiet voice, tired and slow with sleep.

"Will you teach me?" Anna was watching him, her face calm and smiling, "One day?"

Holmes never stopped playing, switching from Bach to Brahms mid note.

"One day," he whispered in reply, "Maybe one day." This seemed to satisfy her, and she fell asleep, soothed by a lullaby played to her on the strings of the violin.

* * *

Watson yawned into his hand, before continuing with his notes. The patient on bed smiled sympathetically. 

"Tired, Dr Watson?" he enquired, eyeing the Doctor. Watson smiled briefly, handing a nurse the prescription.

"I have been watching over another patient, she sleeps fitfully," he replied as he stood. The patient, an academic by the name of Rinehart, nodded in understanding.

"Women tend to," he commented, much to Watson's amusement.

"Rest, Professor Rinehart, is all you need just now," he said, taking his leave.

"Get some sleep yourself, Doctor. I won't have a fatigued man operating on me tomorrow," the professor called after him. Watson agreed with him as he walked along the hospital corridors, bumping into several people on the way out.

He was approaching the door, when someone calling his name made him turn.

"Doctor Watson!" a red faced young locum was sprinting along the corridor after him. He skidded to a halt and stood panting. Watson eyed him incredulously, waiting for him to catch his breath.

"There's…………..a…..lord……..waiting for you….in your…..office," the young man wheezed having been in full sprint towards the doctor. Watson frowned.

"Can't it wait?" he asked, irritated. The other doctor shook his head, and Watson groaned internally. Now he would be late for dinner.

"Lead the way," he said reluctantly, patting the mans shoulder and removing his bowler hat with an air of defeat.

* * *

Watson did not return for dinner. Holmes disgruntled awoke Miss Latimer and helped her to a chair. 

"Mrs Hudson assists on serving dinner," he whispered as the latter entered with a tray. After some moments of silence, Holmes suggested that she tell her tale to him, in the hop to extract some small piece of information.

"My mother died giving birth to me. I never knew her except through family stories and the resemblance of my sister, Alice. She never could forgive me for her death. There was a significant difference in our respective ages, so the matter did not cause me as much distress as it might have, as Alice married and moved away.

My brother, Thomas, was my idol throughout childhood. We were very close, especially after," Anna suddenly paused in her tale, causing Holmes to look provokingly at her, his mind grasping in this new information. She smiled and shook her head, moving on.

"Father was away a lot, but he seemed to neither favour nor hate me, I just another little girl to entertain when he was around. We grew closer when the others left home. Alice married a duke; I believe I have a good number of nieces and nephews in Scotland. My brother went to university in Oxford, which is where he met Lady Caroline Northman, third cousin to the Duchess of Kent and possessed of a beauty to compare to that of Aphrodite.

She was somewhat forcibly entered into our lives. Father approved but did not seem to like her. Thomas was smitten. He no longer had time for me, so I spent more and more time in London with Father, whilst the newly weds made the estate in Hampshire their home. I found it strange that they never had children, they had enough time. She was nearly thirty when Father died.

He had influenza of a kind, so we returned home where Caroline insisted that she nurse him. He made some progress and was well for some weeks but he passed away in October last year. After he died, I returned to London, there was nothing left for me, Forestlys was no longer my home.

Then Thomas came to see me, two years later. He was ashen grey and shaking like a leaf. I do not believe I have ever seen him so ill. He insisted that I returned to Forestlys, that I was not safe living alone. When I pointed out I lived with in rooms neighboured by families I was aquatinted with, he was quite at a loss. He begged me to return. Still I refused; I did not care for his wife and found it better to stay in London, for health reasons above most. Three weeks later, I was attending his funeral. I moved out of my lodgings in Belgravia and into Whitehall."

Holmes had listen with avid interest as Anna finished her story, his mind ticking over the new facts and piecing them together. His dinner was untouched whilst hers had been twisted around the plate, inedible to both for different reasons.

Mrs Hudson bustled and groaned loudly.

"Is there something wrong with my cook?" she cried in dismay. Anna hastily uttered her apologies and insisted it was because she felt under the weather and would eat twice as well tomorrow. Holmes raised an eyebrow, and gave her a knowing look. She hastily averted her eyes from the detective.

"Oh Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said, handing Holmes an envelope, "Young gentleman brought this round." Holmes took it and slit it open in one fluid movement. As Mrs Hudson left Anna thought she heard her say,

"He had such nice blue eyes."

Holmes read through the letter quickly before depositing it on the table. His entire manner seemed unsettled, and in another man could have been interpreted as fearful.

"Is it bad news Mr Holmes?" Anna enquired, noting his pallor.

"We have been invited," Holmes stammered, "To attend a party for Sir Henry Baskerville before he departs for Dartmoor," He sighed despondently and rubbed his eyes. Anna smiled.

"You will have a fine time I am sure, Sir Henry is famed for his good parties," she said in reply, making an attempt to swallow some chicken. She failed. Holmes snapped his head up.

"You're invited to," he said flicking the invitation to her, "It says Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson and," he paused, allowing himself a small, somewhat mischievous smile, "Guest."

* * *

The midday street was crowded, the morning mist having finally risen to reveal cheerful rays of sunshine, breaking through the clouds above Paddington Station. The sunshine warmed the side of the man's face, as he stood, waiting, and idly watching puffs of smoke rise from the approaching train. He readjusted the fashionable brown top hat, so that the brim shaded his face a bit more. This action had the effect of revealing his icy blue eyes, which he narrowed, as an overwhelming sense of _déjà vu_ flooded over him. 

The whistle sounded as the train passed under the bridge prior to the station. On the platform, people milled forward to board the train and porters leaning on their barrels jumped to attention, waiting for orders. The man passed by them and walked forward to the edge of the platform.

"Stand back there, Sir!" a guard called over the sound of the approaching train, "'Else you'll be boiled by steam!"

The man gave no reply, but it could be noted that he took a small step backwards as the 1310 puffed and hissed into the station. Emitting billows of steam and smoke, it resembled a fairytale dragon waiting to issue a mouthful of fire. This dragon rumbled to a stop, wheels grinding against the rails.

The porters rushed forward to open the doors, wheeling their barrows for service. The man stepped forward once more, eyes scanning the carriages. He smiled as he saw her; she was descending from the first class carriage near the front of the train. She acknowledged him with a brief nod, whilst arranging for a porter to attend to her luggage. Once finished, she walked towards him and stood perhaps searching his face for a hint of emotion.

The man swept his hat off and bowed over her gloved hand, kissing it as he rose. The woman laughed lightly, slipping her arm through his. Together they walked away from the train, porter following them, his trolley wheels squeaking as they went over a crack in the floor.

Once in the man's carriage, the woman turned to him and as she removed her lace gloves, spoke briskly, her voice tinged with annoyance.

"What was so urgent, that I was required to leave Forestlys?" The man frowned, and tossed her the picture he had been given the previous morning. The woman caught it deftly and glanced at it, her brow arched in mild disbelief.

"Well I wasn't expecting that," she mused quietly, "This man is he..."

"Sherlock Holmes," the man finished for her, removing his hat and sinking back into the leather seats.

The women _tsked_ between gritted teeth and ran a finger across the face of female in the picture.

"Well, well my dear. I never thought you capable of this," she smirked, marring her natural beauty, "You have just made our little game so much more fun."

* * *

_:D_

**_Thanx agen to my spelling beta Emily (because my spell checks is wacko!) And JA Lowell the only one who truly knows where this is going!_**

_**Msncutey:** thanks sweety! I'm glad u enjoyed it! I wonder who she'll end up with ;)_

_**Hermione Holmes: **Well they have been friends for a few years! Lol I agree I hate too quick kissing scenes. If it's gonna happen it's gotta happen naturally!_

_**Sparx: **hallo matey! I agree whatcha think of this one?_

**Susana: **Oh thank you! Glad you're enjoying it!

**Bladed steel person whose name I can't copy because it won't let me:** Thank you for finding me again!


	6. Railings, Parties and Unwanted Visitors

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_What have I got to say to you all today? Hmm, I want idea's! I want challenges! Is there anything you the faithful viewer would like to see happen?_

_**0000000000000000000000000**_

**Railings, Parties and Unwanted Visitors**

The man slammed the door loudly behind him, threw his hat and gloves at a cowering maid, and climbed the stairs shouting for the butler to bring tea to his study. The butler acquiesced quietly from the bottom of the stairs,--"Very good sir,"-- before giving the maid a comforting nod of the head. Apparently, this blaze of anger was to go without remark, for the butler merely brushed a fleck of dust from his shoulder and departed to the kitchens.

The meeting with the doctor had not gone well, the man thought angrily, as he stormed along a short corridor and into a large, well lit room. As he slammed the door loudly closed, the woman looked up from her book and shifted elegantly in the chair beneath the window. She raised eyebrows before returning her gaze to the page before her. After a long moment, she idly raised her index finger, to indicate the presence of another within the room.

The man turned his angry gaze so that it came to rest upon a young man who lounging cattishly in the chair beside the fire. The younger man's impertinent smile didn't quite reach his glinting blue eyes. The man gave a low grunt of disdain, as he settled himself into a chair, and ran a hand through his hair.

"I take it, all did not go well?" Blue eyes enquired amiably, crossing his legs. The man looked at him from between his fingers, rubbing his tired eyes.

"No. It did not," he commented dryly. The sulky set of his lips promised more, but a knock at the door interrupted. "Come," he called, and the answering butler entered carrying a silver tea tray. He set it down on the table and proceeded to pour three cups of tea, running the hot liquid through the tea strainer in a slow, practised motion.

The man watched impatiently before snapping, "That is enough Thurrum!"

The butler carefully laid down the silver tea pot and bowed towards the man before taking his leave. The man splashed some milk into his cup, and deposited two lumps of sugar into his cup, before stirring vigorously it, as if trying to rid himself of his anger.

Blue eyes emptied the milk into the remaining two cups and added sugar, standing to take it to the woman, who accepted it with a curt nod of her head.

Sitting back down again, the younger man turned to face the other man, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

"Well, I may be able to remedy," he paused to emphasise the word, "the slight situation that is developing."

"How?" The woman enquired from across the room, having finally condescended to look up from her book. The quirk of her eyebrow expressed her doubt better than words might have.

"I presume you are going out tonight?" the young man asked.

The elder nodded and then comprehension dawned. "Why? Is our young friend?"

This was met with a smile and a wink as the young man settled back into his chair. "I delivered the invitation myself."

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

The following morning Holmes collected Watson from the hospital and they took a cab to New Street, arriving to a milling crowd, busy with the mornings work. Holmes jumped down, radiant with the energy a case gave him , and Watson followed with somewhat more dignity, the set of his brows indicating his preoccupation. Holmes had observed his friends mood but had chosen as usual to ignore it.

The policemen on duty outside offices stepped a side to let them pass. The long corridor was the same as Watson remembered: the door still bore the familiar sign, headed with the words "AUTHORISED PERSONEL ONLY".

"Now, Watson," Holmes began, awaking Watson from his reminiscences, "Do you recall there being any fireplaces?" Watson looked around half heartily, his mind elsewhere engaged.

"There was one in the waiting room and another in Talbot's office. I do not recall there being any others on this particular floor." He said wearily, pointing at the third door along the corridor.

"And all these other doors?" Holmes indicated the others with a brief encircling action. Watson shrugged.

"I would assume storage. Lawyers have many records." Holmes frowned at Watson's apparent lack of interest for their task, but busied himself finding the murder weapon.

As they moved to open a door, there came a panicked shout from the end of the corridor.

"You can't go in there!" It was the clerk, hurriedly walking down the corridor to meet them, suit crinkled from sleep. Holmes quickly stepped into role.

"Police, sir. We have a warrant," Holmes pulled an old unpaid restaurant bill from the inside of his jacket and waved it at the clerk, before quickly tucking it away. The clerk looked suspicious. Watson felt a slight trace of excitement and adopting what he hoped was an authorative voice, joined in.

"Do _you_ have clearance to be here, sir?" The clerk withered in courage and nodded.

"I am clearing the records room, sirs, for there is a lot to be moved." The clerk seemed timid after his sudden burst of energy, a tired pallor creeping into his cheeks. Holmes paused and rubbed his chin.

"Perhaps you can be of some assistance to us?" he asked, looking upon the man favourably. The clerk nodded, raising his head to meet Holmes' eyes.

"Anything I can do for the police." Holmes smiled and briskly clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good man. We need the all references you have in your file rooms on the Latimer family, they were a client here I believe." The clerk looked dubious once more.

"I'm not meant to give out personal information," he said slowly, as if going over the rule, "But in the current circumstances, who am I to refuse?"

"There was nothing there Watson," Holmes admitted dejectedly, looking quite crestfallen.

"Not a single missing fire poker or anything that looked like it could administrate such a terrible blow!"

Watson smiled sympathetically, feeling a little less tense than on arrival. Quite suddenly he tripped on the step and reached for the railing to break his fall. But the railing fell with him, leaving both deposited in a pile at the bottom of the steps.

"It's not God damn funny, Holmes!" he accused, seeing Holmes' radiating smile. Holmes began to laugh, throwing back his head, his dark hair haloed by the midday sun.

"Look Watson," he chuckled, reaching out a hand. Watson made to take it, but Holmes was picking up the fallen railing. The doctor groaned and scrambled undignified to his feet, shooting dark stares at Holmes whilst he grinned triumphantly at Watson.

"You have found us our murder weapon,"

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

A cold wind blew across the water, pulling at the leaves in the trees, calling for the branches to release their burdens. The September sun was warm on her face as Anna watched the world pass by around her.

She was sitting on a bench in a Hyde Park, her pale cheeks flushed with the cold and her hair pulled from under her hat. She raised a blue tinted hand and looked at it critically, grudgingly pulling her gloves back on. Slowly, she stood, glancing around her.

The brilliant blue of the sky was reflected upon the water, where children played with their boats, watched over by their guardians. A few horses were treading the riding track and couples ambled across the grass. It was picturesque, and serene, but Anna found her gaze drifting towards a group of mill workers, their shoulders weary, and faces worn. And where she would normally have delighted in the blush of autumn colours across the trees, she found herself contemplating instead the soot-stained buildings rising in the distance.

_I wish life were not so bleak, _she thought, smiling sadly at a little girl who ran past her, braids bouncing against her back, _Or so lonely_. The faint scuff of approaching footsteps interrupted her musings and she turned her eyes to the path behind her.

It was a young man, smartly dressed and neat in appearance. Anna was dimly aware she had seen him before.

"Are you alright, Miss?" he asked politely, his eyes looking questioning at her. Anna nodded her head dumbly and smiled slightly in reassurance. The man looked bemused but continued along the path that skirted around the waters edge.

His eyes had been like chips of ice, she thought, and shivered despite the sun

"Anna!"

She turned again, and smiled in recognition. "John," she acknowledged.

Watson fell into step beside her as they crossed over the horse track. "You should not be out," he commented after a minute's silence.

Anna sighed and did not answer, fiddling with her gloves.

"Mrs Hudson was quite worried when we returned," Watson tried again.

Anna made a small sound of annoyance." Then I shall apologise to her!" she snapped, "But I needed some time alone." She immediately regretted her harsh words but could not find it in herself to calm the annoyance that was surging through her body.

Watson said nothing as they walked through the gates and back into the streets of London. Finally, after calling a cab, he glanced at her and said, in a quiet, resigned tone, "Please do not go out without informing myself or Mrs Hudson again. Please." Anna nodded mutely and continued to stare straight ahead. Watson sighed, helped her up, and got in beside her, calling up to the cabby. "Baker Street."

A young man was leaning idly against one of the gate posts, and a slow smile curved across his lips as as the cabby whipped up his horse and the cab moved off. He watched the cab until it rounded the corner, and then he settled his hat jauntily up on his head before sauntering off in the opposite direction

And across the street Sherlock Holmes took a final drag on his cigarette before throwing it into the wind.

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

The man stared at himself in the mirror, seemingly transfixed with his reflection. His hands rested at his throat, where a black tie hung haphazardly, the knot already loosened. From his mirror, he could tell that the woman was watching from behind him, her eyes blazing with fury.

"I will not kill a woman, Mariah," he said firmly, unknotting the tie, his eyes never leaving the woman's reflection. The woman rose from the bed, and walked slowly towards him, visibly attempting to control her anger.

"And why not?" as if enquiring into why there was no bread for breakfast.

The man turned in his chair and looked at her scathingly. "Have you no shame, Mariah?" he questioned. The woman's face fell and she sank to the floor before him. The man's facial expression changed to amusement. "Prostrating yourself at my feet will not help!"

The woman raised her head to look at him, her eyes pleading now, the proud will apparently broken. "We need this, we need it," she begged.

The man heaved a sigh, and reached down to take the woman's hands. "It will be done. But without her death," he said, gently caressing the side of her face gently. The woman smiled up at him radiantly, but if he had gazed at her a little more closely, he might have seen that her eyes did not meet his own.

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

Upon their return, Watson had ushered Anna into a chair beside the fire, checking her pulse and breathing. Anna sat patiently, waiting for the doctor to finish. At some point during the examination, Holmes sauntered in and threw himself in a chair, where he sat in silence, with a smug half-smile upon his visage.

"What time are we expected tonight Holmes?" Watson asked, closing his bag with a muffled click.

Anna quickly opened her mouth to speak. "I am not going," she argued, glaring at Holmes.

The detective merely smiled at her, as if she were a young child, or perhaps a small dog that had just performed a clever trick. He turned to address the doctor: "Eight I believe. Now you must excuse me, I have something to attend to." He stood, then, leaving an open mouthed Anna and a frowning Doctor in his wake.

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

_He shut the door quickly behind him and leaned against it relief flooding his veins, as it always did when he entered this world of darkened silence._

Anna ran her hand along the silks of the dresses laid out on her bed. They were all dark, nothing bright had graced her wardrobe for many a year now. Her hand lingered over the black silk, memories of death clinging to the fine material.

_He wrapped a thin strip of material around his arm at the point where radius and ulna met humerus. He watched as the veins began to rise up from under his skin. He picked up the needle from desk and efficiently punctured a plump vessel.._

Anna withdrew her hand and quickly selected the dark, almost navy blue dress, deliberately avoiding all contact with the black.

_Holmes closed his eyes and sank back into his chair, feeling the familiar numbness creep over him. The mist cleared around him and slowly things began to slot into place._

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

Watson smiled as Anna came down the stairs, the swish of her dress echoing off the walls.

"You look lovely, my dear," he said taking her arm, "How are you feeling?" Anna nodded and gave his hand a reassuring pat.

"I am fine," she assured, pulling on her gloves. Watson shrugged and looked at the door, which lead off to Holmes' room. Gingerly, he knocked upon it.

"Holmes?" He called gruffly, "Are you ready?" The door opened, revealing a neat and elegant Holmes, complete in everything from black tie to white shirt. Anna clapped her hands, smiling in delight.

"Mr Holmes, you look charming," she praised, her face alight. Watson nodded grudgingly, somewhat amused at Anna's praise. Holmes looked uncomfortable for a moment with the attention, before bowing politely to Anna. As he rose, Watson noticed a tinge appear in his cheeks as he murmured,

"As do you, Miss Latimer."

They had arrived at the large assembly rooms in short order, and Watson glanced about the crowd for some sight of their host. The tall nobleman was in his element, the last vestiges of the Canadian prairies having fallen away, as he stepped more firmly into his role in British society. Watson smiled a greeting, and gestured for his companions to follow him

Sir Henry Baskerville grinned and rung Watson's hand tightly, "It is a delight to see you again Doctor," he said happily, and on seeing Holmes standing behind him. "And Mr Holmes, such an honour!"

Holmes stepped forward to shake hands, and then nudged Anna forward.

"Sir Henry, may I present Miss Anna Latimer, an acquaintance of both myself and the good doctor." He deliberately forgot to mention Miss Latimer's current living arrangements.

Sir Henry bowed low over Anna's hand, kissing it softly, his eyes never leaving hers.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Latimer," he said softly, rising. Anna smiled almost shyly,

"Please Sir Henry, call me Anna," she conceded, her hand still in his. Sir Henry smiled.

"Well then Anna, may I ask for a dance later this evening?" Anna nodded graciously, and Sir Henry went back, reluctantly, to his other guests.

Watson winked at Holmes, as he took Anna's arm and led her towards the mass of people.

"Sir Henry has certainly been making friends since last we saw him." Watson commented, searching for someone he knew. Holmes nodded thoughtfully and disappeared into the crowd.

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

Anna detached herself from Watson after a few minutes and soon found herself sitting in a chair overlooking the dance floor. He had quite naturally found a colleague to talk to, as if those in the medical profession were drawn together by unseen forces. She found that she had no desire to learn of the latest wound suture techniques, and had retired. Instead, she admired those dancing, the brightly dressed women and dapper young men. A beautiful woman in a white dress caught Anna's eye as she passed by but it was her partner that made her stare.

Anna frowned, trying to locate the man in her mind, but joined in with the applause as the dance finished. The man was applauding his partner when he caught Anna staring. He winked at her, a glint of humour in his eyes making her blush.

She knew him now, for he had winked at her outside Talbot's office. He was the man who had enquired after her at the park earlier that day. He smiled at her suggestively and turned, walking casually away. Anna deliberated for only a few moments, and would have made to follow him were it not for the wave of dizziness that washed through her. Clutching at the wall, Anna pulled herself to her feet and sought the nearest exit.

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

"Watson, may I have a word?" Holmes pulled at Watson's arm, dragging him away before he could reply.

"I say Holmes, what is this all about?" he asked, alarmed.

Holmes checked that no one was listening before bending over and whispering in his friend's ear. "Our young charge is being followed."

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

The young man entered the small side room and checked it was empty before settling himself down on the chaise in front of the fire. He tugged at his bow tie and pulled his jacket off, loosening his shirt sleeves. He jumped and twisted round as a quiet voice spoke hurriedly from a corner.

"Sorry, I'll leave."

_She's pretty, _the man thought, sweeping his eyes over the girl that had just emerged from the shadows. _Very pretty. _

"Makes no difference to me," he said turning back to the fire and putting his feet up on a chair, "Feel free to skulk." He heard a gasp of indignation.

"I was not skulking."

Anna stepped entirely out of the shadows to appraise the new occupant of the room that had been her sanctuary for the last half hour. He sat now, legs propped up by another chair, smoking, and for all intents and purposes, ignoring her.

"Forgive my rudeness in not asking sooner," he said suddenly, "But do you mind if I smoke?"

"No, I find the smell reassuring," she admitted, "But it matters not. I am leaving." The man chose to ignore the last comment and questioned her, "Reassuring? How so?"

When she didn't reply, he twisted his head round again and prompted her, "Come now, you have me interested."

Anna answered him politely, despite not wanting to reveal much to this stranger. "It reminds me of my father, and that I am safe," He seemed surprised.

"To each their own," he held out a hand, "Edward Croft." Anna took a step forward to accept it.

"Annalese Latimer."

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

The woman pulled at the skin around her eyes, as if trying to iron out the wrinkles that lurked in the corners. Her beauty wouldn't last, she knew that. There were signs even now that it had begun to fade and diminish. She could not rely on it forever.

Sighing, she rang a bell for her maid to help her undress. As the various layers were removed, the woman decided that she knew what had to be done if her lover refused her requests much longer. She would have what was hers.

The maid finished quickly, leaving the woman to the company of her own mind once more. There was so much to be done and yet she was so close. The money was in her name, along with the house. But she needed closure. She needed a death. And the woman cared not whose it was.

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

Somehow Anna found herself seated opposite Edward Croft, chatting as old friends would. His good natured humour and loquacious manner had drawn Anna from her shell and into the open.

"What of the theatre, Miss Latimer?" he asked her with interest, "Has no play ever captured your mind?"

Anna laughed lightly and shook her head. "No Mr Croft, no play has ever ensnared my mind. I can not tolerate plays if they are not performed how I would want them to be. For example, I saw Shakespeare's Hamlet some time ago, and the portrayal of Ophelia was perfect but Hamlet!" She paused, trying to find words to describe her malady.

"Weak," Croft suggested smiling, "I think I saw the production of which you speak. At Her Majesty's?"

Anna nodded. "Quite so Mr Croft," and then after glancing at the clock she said regretfully, "I am afraid I must leave you for I have been requested to dance and I can not refuse."

Mr Croft let out a dramatic sigh, "And so farewell to fair and good company," He stood and offered her his arm, "May I escort you back to the ballroom?" Anna took his arm and stood, a little stiff from staying in one repose.

There was a cough from the door. Both looked abruptly. Holmes was stood leaning against the door frame, cigarette in hand.

"Miss Latimer, I believe Sir Henry wishes to dance," Holmes said quietly, cold. Anna muttered a goodbye and hurried out of the room. Holmes watched her go before turning his gaze on Mr Edward Croft. He shifted uncomfortably under the detective's scrutiny. Holmes, seemingly satisfied, left.

"It was a pleasure to meet you Miss Latimer," Sir Henry said, clasping her hand, "Maybe you'll accompany Doctor Watson and Mr Holmes to Dartmoor one day?" Anna nodded gracefully.

"It would be an honour."

They left in silence and on their return to Baker Street, Anna hurriedly made her excuses and went to bed.

Watson watched her go in surprise.

"She must be tired," Holmes supplied, taking his pipe from the mantle. Watson came in and shut the door behind him. Holmes noticed his face and snorted loudly.

"Watson, you have been looking distant all day. Tell me, old friend, what is wrong?"

Watson sighed, coming to stand next to the fire.

"I was late home yesterday for a reason. I was just about to leave when I received a message that there was someone waiting to see me. So I proceeded upstairs to the offices and you'll be as surprised as I was to learn who my guest was…"

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" The man asked disdainfully, setting down the skull he had been examining.

"Yes," Watson said warily. The man sighed and turned to face him.

"I'll get straight to the point. My name is Lord Charles Highcroft, director of the metropolitan police. It is our belief that you know the whereabouts of a Miss Annalese Latimer?" Watson's eyebrows rose.

"Why?" he asked.

The man ran a hand through his dark hair before replacing his hat. "Because," he explained, "She is wanted in connection for the deaths of Sir Charles Latimer and the Hon. Thomas Latimer of Hampshire." He paused for a minute before continuing.

"It is probably in your best interests to know that without your cooperation, you will be struck off."

**_0000000000000000000000000_**

_My thanks as always to JA Lowell for her endless help and support. Her wonderful fic is up on here which you must all read. I think most of you do anyway!_

**Zantetsuken- **Why thank you for making such a choice! My chapters are usually shorter than hers lol.

**Janey Aurora- **I love that nightmare scene. I'm glad you enjoyed it too!

**Susana- **Thank you very much! I hate writing characters because it's hard not to make sound silly.

**Hermione Holmes-** I've had much deliberation over Watson and Anna, but in the end I decided that they've known each other a long time, which will emerge in the next chapter, so they have a very close relationship.

**msn-cutey- **Thank you chuck!

**JA Lowell-** Well I'm glad you liked it! If you didn't I'd have to re-write the thing!


	7. Headaches, Returns and Slight Accidents

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_Read away!_

_It's all yours!_

* * *

The man glanced around the room, checking for signs of life. Satisfied that there was nobody present, he crossed the ballroom, the heel of his shoes beating out a terse staccato upon the wooden floor. Through the greying darkness, he could see the glow of firelight flickering in a doorway to his right. The man abruptly changed direction and headed for the light.

On reaching the door, he leant against the frame, observing the occupant of the room. The younger man sat lounged in a chair, a glass of amber liquid clasped in one hand and his left foot swinging in time to a tune only he could hear. The man by the door coughed loudly, not bothering to enter. The other ignored him and continued counting the beat.

"Well!" the man asked impatiently. Blue eyes chucked softly, before taking an indulgent the glass.

"I don't think there'll be a problem," he said finally.

The man looked doubtful. "And why is that?" Blue eyes turned to look at him reproachfully before turning back to the fire. He smiled to himself. "She met a young man tonight, a very charming young man. But if you get to her first, it should not be a problem."

The man smirked and nodded. He clapped his hand upon the panel of the door, as if it were his companions shoulder "Good man!" he congratulated, before taking his leave of the room.

The 'good man' listened as the footsteps faded across the floor, allowing himself a sigh after they had gone. He ran a finger along the crest of his nose, and closed his eyes as he tried to banish the remnants of a headache.

* * *

The gas lamps still burned their glow failing to entirely dispel the gloom of night which hung heavy in the air. Nevertheless, the dock was busy with people as the gangplank of the heavily laden cargo ship was lowered. The sounds of the Dockers' crude jokes and laughter were interspersed with the scrape and clatter of boxes and crates being lowered from the ship. The first of the passengers began to emerge, a small group of cloaked immigrants who stood in a tight, defensive cluster, muttering amongst themselves, and an impatient young man who immediately ran to protect his belongings from suffering any mishandling.

A gradual quiet descended on the dock as the click of a feminine heel sounded against the wooden walkway. A handful of the men removed their caps as the woman stepped down on to the stone walkway. She turned to give them a brief nod, before taking the hands of the two children by her side.

"Come now," she whispered to them, "Do not be scared,"

A footman stood waiting by a stately carriage and open the door with rehearsed ease. He bowed low and offered the woman a hand up into the carriage. As he helped the two children, the footman smiled slightly and winked, "Welcome to London," and then as he found himself being watched by the woman, he added, "Welcome home, your Grace."

* * *

Holmes yawned loudly on entering the room and sank into the basket chair, usually reserved for clients, plucking his pipe from the table. Watson looked up from his paper and grunted his greeting. Holmes lit his pipe and looked around the room, noting the steaming platter on the table by the wall.

Watson noticing the direction of his stare, nodded at the sausages saying, "You're to eat at least three, by my orders as well as Mrs Hudson's."

"May I enquire as to why I must?" Holmes asked scathingly.

"No, you may not." Holmes shuddered and stood to fetch himself a plate. Watson attempted to engage him in conversation but found he was talking to an unwilling listener but this did not seem to deter his efforts. "The house across from ours has been let, perhaps we should we should pay a visit. It would be nice to get to know our neighbours, Holmes."

Holmes stared at him in horror at such a domestic suggestion, the doctor's ramblings having finally caught his attention. "Watson, we are not an old married couple," Holmes said weakly, "Contrary to popular belief." Watson took a hint and remained quiet whilst Holmes ate.

After satisfying both the doctor and housekeeper in filling his stomach, Holmes once more sat down in his chair and yawned, picking up the Sunday Times from the table, idly flicking to the Obituaries.

* * *

_**Obituaries**_

_**Mr A Talbot passed away, Thursday Of this week. Funeral to be confirmed.**_

_**The Duke of Fief died in his **__**home in India. No funeral.**_

* * *

****

"Anyone we know?" Watson enquired humorously in a last attempt to strike up conversation.

Holmes raised a refined eyebrow. "Mr A. Talbot," he remarked, turning the page.

Watson's face fell.

"Oh God," he groaned, "I forgot." He set down his paper heavily, and rested his hands on the arms of his chair. "Don't let Anna see that," he added.

Holmes looked up. "Ah yes, and where is our house guest?" he asked, indifferent.

"Visiting a friend," Watson replied, "She left very early this morning, I do not expect her back until this afternoon."

* * *

The hospital of St Georges was full of people. Sick people. An obvious fact, the very reason Anna hated hospitals. Nothing felt clean here, a sickening stench of death and decay hung in the air even in the private consultation rooms and offices. It did not seem to bother anyone else, but it chilled her to the bones.

_I often thank God,_ she had told a friend once, _that I am not ill in the sense that I have some nauseating disease but something that kills me tidily. _Her friend had not been amused, but that simple thought often made her feel better than any medicine.

Across the hall from where she sat now two doctors were conferring their separate findings on her current condition. Anna felt anticipation rise and swell in the pit of her stomach as the door opened.

"Miss Latimer," a nurse called, beckoning her forward. Anna nodded and rose stiffly, the nurse hurried over and together they walked slowly through the door.

* * *

"_Anna?" a voice called to her from across the room. She turned her head slowly, trying to dispel the pain that crept up her neck._

"_Yes papa?" she said, as her father crouched down beside her bed. Taking her hand, he smiled weakly and she could see the tears forming in his eyes. Turning her head a little more on her pillow, Anna frowned._

"_Papa? What is wrong?" Her father seemed incapable of answering and let go of her hand abruptly, leaving to stand at the window. Anna searched frantically around the room with fearful eyes for her brother._

"_Tom?" Her brother pushed himself off the wall and came to stand at the foot of her bed._

"_I'm here Anna," her brother said, glancing across at his father, "Annie, the doctors," he paused and looked to his father again. _

"_Annie, the doctors say that there is something wrong with your spine, your back."_

_Anna looked confused, "I do not understand. I can not remember," Her brother rubbed the brink of his nose._

"_Annie, there is pressure building at the base of the bone in your back, and it is damaging the nerve endings, the doctors say that…"_

* * *

"The cancer has become more advanced since we last met," one doctor said matter of fatly, "Your choices are limited, except the new and potentially dangerous medicine or we can guarantee you will live to see Christmas." He looked sympathetic, "I am sorry but there is nothing we can do."

Anna remained composed, "I will need some time to decide," She admitted, "The side effects you mentioned of the new drug sound very disconcerting." Both doctors nodded and carried on talking at her, but Anna found herself unable to answer.

* * *

Holmes shoved the doors of Scotland Yard open with an air of the dramatic, brushing past the two officers who came forward to intercept him. Purposely, he strode down the corridor, turning sharply right to knock on the door marked **Chief Inspector Lestrade**.

"Come," Holmes pushed open the door and went in.

Upon entering, Holmes noted a strong smell of perfume, blown across the room through the open window. He frowned upon finding the source, the only other person in the room, a slightly rounded Lestrade who stood to greet him."Holmes, glad you could come so quickly," Lestrade smiled jovially, though Holmes could sense the anxiety twitching at the corner of his mouth, and as they shook hands a tiny feather caught on his sleeve. Holmes sat down contently.

"Lestrade, where is the lady that you wish me to meet?" Holmes asked, the right side of his mouth curled in a slight smile. Lestrade looked put out and sat down heavily on his chair. "How to blazes Holmes did you know?" Holmes beamed and leaned forward eagerly.

"The strong smell of White Rose perfume alerted me to some female presence, with the hope that you have not started wearing any," Lestrade bristled and Holmes continued, "Followed by your nervous nature, the feather on your sleeve which is ostrich and therefore from a ladies hat, and the lady of whom we speak, is silhouetted in the glass of the door to my right."

Lestrade mouthed wordlessly as the door opened to reveal a woman and her ostrich feather hat. Holmes rose elegantly and bowed his head.

"Your Grace," he said lifting his head. The woman looked surprised her features familiar to Holmes. Lestrade pulled up another chair for her to sit upon and with solemn dignity, Duchess Alice Louise of Fief sat down. She looked at Holmes in interest briefly before turning to the inspector.

"This is the man investigating my brother's death?" she asked quietly. Lestrade nodded. The Duchess sighed and returned her gaze to Holmes. "It is then, I presume, you who know of my sister's whereabouts?" Holmes inclined his head and sat back in his chair. She raised an eyebrow curiously and stated calmly,

"I take it you are not going to tell me where?" Holmes smiled in reply and she laughed softly, "I did not think you would."

Holmes shrugged apologetically, "Policy."

* * *

Anna winced as she emerged into the over bright street, the sun blinding her momentarily. It would not do to be seen by Doctor Watson, or Mr Holmes, she thought as she slipped into the shadier side of the pavement and resigned herself to a slow walk, her head bowed to avoid being seen.

"You are skulking again Miss Latimer," a voice commented behind her. Anna turned her face indignantly.

"I was not!" she hissed upon seeing who was there. Edward Croft blew a cloud of smoked into the air, his blue eyes glinting mockingly.

"Is that so," he said chuckling, "I am afraid you do not convince me Miss Latimer, for I call hiding in the shadows and looking as suspicious as you do, skulking." Anna frowned and fought the urge to be childish. Mr Croft, sensing he had annoyed her, stubbed his cigarette out and offered her his arm, "Would you care to join me for a brief amble in the park?"

Anna looked him incredulously. He winked and said, "By way of an apology for teasing you so." Against her better judgement, Anna took his arm and together they proceeded in the direction of Hyde Park.

* * *

"Our lives," the man said, tossing his hat and gloves onto the table, "Appear to be laden with misfortune." The woman looked up expectantly.

"And why would that be," she inquired. The man knocked back a glass a brandy.

"Your sister-in-law has returned from India." The woman let her book fall to the ground.

"What?" she asked quietly, almost deadly. The man tossed her the day's newspaper and she caught it deftly.

"Turn to the obituaries, my dear," he said in angry laziness, resting an arm on the mantle. The woman shook out the paper and flicked through the pages. Setting it down a table she poured over it, using her finger to find the place. She paused, read a line, and then began to tear at the paper in frenzy, ripping it into small strips. Screwing it up into a ball, the woman threw it onto the fire narrowly missing the man's brandy glass which he clasped in his left hand.

"Indeed," he commented as he watched the paper burn in the grate, the very ink running onto the logs and staining the fire.

* * *

The stone hit the water and skimmed five times across the surface before slowly sinking to the bottom of the lake. Lake it was called, though pond was more of a sensible suggestion.

Edward Croft laughed as Anna curtsied, her throw having beaten his by one skim. Passers by either looked on with distain or with amusement, as the two young adults played their game. "I've never done this before in my life," Anna confessed, her cheeks pink and glowing.

"Then you have not lived," Croft cried, sinking on to the grass and pulling her down roughly to sit beside him. She giggled, giddy from blood that was flowing quickly through her body.

"This is a good apology," she admitted, brushing at her skirts. Croft nodded and delved into the pocket of his discarded jacket, pulling out a small hip flask from it. He took a quick swig before offering it to Anna. She pulled his hand towards her face so she could smell the contents and pulled a face. "I hate brandy," she said defiantly. Croft shrugged,

"Suit yourself." He took another mouthful before stretching out on the grass, pulling his hat down over his eyes. Anna watched him, her head tilted on one side. "Stop staring at me, Miss Latimer, unless of course you intend to provoke me into taking advantage of you," Anna started, a wave of guilt and surprise washing through her.

"Mr Croft," she exclaimed, making to stand. But he took hold of her arm and held her in place.

"Do not be stupid Miss Latimer," he said calmly, "You can hardly walk unaided so it would be pointless to assume that I would do anything to compromise your position." He waved idly on this word and yawned, "Now my dear, tell me why where you at the hospital this morning."

* * *

The Duchess sat down gracefully into her chair and assessed her visitor. Her late brother's wife was a beauty, there no question. She had poise, elegance and a charming air. But perhaps that was a glint of madness in her eye and manner, something erratic and unsettled. The Duchess was not a suspicious woman by nature but her sister-in-law's visit made her uneasy.

"To what do I owe this pleasure," she asked politely, folding her hands in her lap. Mrs Caroline Latimer put down her cup and reached for the sugar.

"Why, dear sister, I felt we should meet so I can tell of all that has occurred in your absence," Mrs Latimer smiled broadly at the Duchess, who reclined back in her chair and allowed her sister-in-law to begin.

* * *

Anna sat silent for some time, her refusal to tell anything to Mr Croft had placed an uncomfortable mood on them and she was unsure of what to do next. Croft sighed next to her. "I have gone to far again, have I not Miss Latimer," he said dryly, propping himself up on one arm, "Oh well, it is of little or no importance." He stood slowly and positioned himself so that he was standing directly in front of her. Extending a hand, he pulled her to her feet and then reached down for her hat and his jacket. Slinging the coat over one shoulder, he placed the hat at a jaunty angle on Anna's head. Stepping back to admire his work, he grinned, "Come Miss Silent, I shall escort you home," and with that he took her arm once more, leading her across the grass.

They arrived at Baker Street at a quarter past three and stood for a moment outside the house. Edward Croft spoke first, taking her hand and kissing it with a wink, "Miss Latimer, it has been a pleasure."

Anna smiled in agreement. "Indeed, I had a most interesting time," she said dryly. He grinned wickedly and pressed something into her hand,

"Then I look forward to the next time I meet you skulking." He took a few steps backwards before turning and walking into the street. Anna sighed and glanced down at her hand. It was a slip of paper with a single word on.

_Tomorrow? _

She smiled to herself, tucking the paper inside her glove before gingerly making her way up the steps.

* * *

Holmes looked up expectantly from the bubbling flask which was balanced precariously on a crooked tripod and pivoted round on his chair. The audible thud had come from outside the door. Holmes shrugged and turned back to his work, mentally calculating _Body, weighing under 140 pounds._ Upon this thought he frowned and then cursed slightly. Standing quickly, he hurried to the door and wrenched it open.

"Watson?" he shouted across the landing, bending down quickly to check the lifeless body of Miss Latimer who lay in a crumbled heap. The doctor appeared around the edge of his door, and upon seeing the girl, he rushed forward.

"Good God Holmes, what happened?" he asked, as Holmes scooped up her lifeless body and carried her into the room from whence he came, sitting down on the chaise-lounge Anna's lifeless body draped over him.

"I found her," he said simply, and at seeing Watson's dismayed face, added, "She had not been there long, I heard her fall." This did not really pacify Watson but he continued examining her. After a few moments he helped Holmes to carry her to her bed.

"I do believe there to be anything physical abnormal, her pulse is returned to normal though her breathing remains laboured," he said softly as they returned to the other room. Holmes shrugged and lit his pipe.

"Perhaps she is merely tired," he suggested. Watson looked at him scornfully.

"Holmes, she went to see a friend, it's not as if she's been running around Hyde Park," he paused, anger underlying each word, "You did make her eat last night; she did not touch her breakfast this morning." Holmes shook his head sheepishly. Watson emitted a sound of annoyance.

"Why Holmes, do I bother?" he asked hotly as he looked down out of the window, "I expect you to at least extend some consideration to our guest, regardless of your lack of healthy morals. Anna must eat properly and when I am not present, it must be you who enforces this." Watson halted his rant, in an attempt to collect himself.

Holmes puffed on his pipe dejectedly for a few minutes before picking up the paper.

* * *

Around three o'clock, after they had dined and Anna still slept, Watson stood again at the window, staring down into the street below. The comings and goings of the world around him sometimes calmed and suppressed any angry emotion the doctor felt.

As he watched, a carriage pulled up outside their door, bearing a coat of arms. Watson watched in mild interest as a footman jumped down to open the carriage door. But it was with confusion when he saw the woman who descended from within. Watson blinked once and then hastened to the front door.

* * *

"Your Grace is telling me, that your sister-in-law paid you a visit this morning, after our meeting with Inspector Lestrade?"

The Duchess of Fief nodded her head, as Holmes paced the room. Watson was staring questioningly at Holmes then back at the Duchess. "When did you return to England, your grace?" he asked, trying to clear his mind.

"Yesterday evening," she answered, frowning a little, "Doctor Watson is it not?" Watson nodded his head. She smiled at him. "My father spoke of you, you are Anna's doctor?"

"The very same, your grace. Though I am afraid we never had the pleasure of meeting," Watson said politely. The Duchess smiled at him.

"I know very little about Anna's condition," she said gently, "Perhaps you could inform me?" Watson smiled in return and proceeded. Holmes listened with mild interest and toyed with the new information.

The Duchess, having heard all Watson knew, looked expectantly up at him. "May I see my sister now?"

Holmes glanced quickly at Watson. "She is resting. We shall see that she knows of your request," he conceded gently. The Duchess frowned slightly before inclining her head in thanks. She stood slowly and shook their hands,

"It has been a pleasure gentlemen." Then she was gone.

* * *

The young blue eyed man watched Baker Street from his window as the Duchess departed and took note of it on the paper before him. He had seen a lot that day. He was watched the young lady fall in love, the detective leave to return two minutes later and the Doctor plodding his way along the street, engrossed in his own thoughts.

She was so beautiful. So quiet and pale. It would be easy to love her in return, just to see her smile. Still, sympathy had to go out to those in love. What would they do when out of love? Shakespeare had the right idea. Write of love as an ideal but not of the realities. It would put people off.

* * *

It was some hours later when Anna awoke, her pale cheeks a little pinker, eyes a little less tired. Watson had carried her into the parlour room, amidst her protests she could walk, and lay her in a chair. Mrs Hudson had bustled around plumping cushions and scolding the girl for not eating. Anna fell prey to sleep once more, only waking when a clatter of silver was to be heard.

Holmes glanced over as the maid set down Anna's dinner on a small coffee table and bobbed before leaving. He pointed at the contents of a steaming platter meaningfully, meeting her eyes. "Our good friend Watson requires you to eat something, if you wish to leave that chair by tomorrow," he said from across the room, where he sat writing at a small desk. Anna pushed herself up and groaned painfully.

"I hardly see the point," she muttered, "It will not make the slightest difference." Holmes raised an eyebrow and continued with his work. After a while, Anna began to pick at the food, realising she was actually quite hungry. Holmes noted with satisfaction that she ate over half of what had been left for her.

When the clock struck seven, Holmes set down his pen and picked up his violin. Anna watched interestedly as he began to test each string and the bow. His utter devotion to the instrument was surprising, when she compared this to his usual callous manner.

"Will you teach me today," she asked, remembering the vague promise he hadmade herHolmes smiled a little at his violin, before briskly saying,

"I can not teach sitting down, Miss Anna." Anna frowned with a childish hint, as Holmes turned back to the fire, raising his violin to his shoulder and started to play. The soft, yet piercing sounds of strings began to fill the room and Holmes fell deep into the music. Unbeknownst to him, Anna pushed off the blanket that had been wrapped round her and painfully slowly began to stand.

It was therefore sometime later that the shaky hand on his right shoulder caused Holmes to turn. Anna stood unsteadily before him, her face white with effort, hands ready to grasp something if she fell. Which she did.

"Well Miss Anna, this is a surprise," Holmes muttered dryly into Anna's ear, his arms, violin and bow all wrapped around her waist with the entire ensemble tipping precariously off balance. Anna raised her eyes to look at him, seething with embarrassment.

"I am so sorry Mr Holmes," she said hurriedly, attempting to shift her position to stand. Holmes hissed a warning but it was too late. They had already lost balance and were now descending to the floor in twist of legs and arms.

Silence descended upon the room as Holmes found himself lying in a heap on the floor with Anna sprawled over him, her head resting upon his chest and one arm caught beneath his head. She was so still and unmoving that Holmes at first thought she must have fainted. Uncharacteristically gentle, he reached out his free hand and brushed away the hair that veiled Anna's face. Her eyes were tightly clenched and now he thought, Holmes could feel her shaking. "Miss Latimer, open your eyes," Holmes spoke softly almost cajoling, slowly pushing himself up on one arm. Timidly, blushing a violent shade of scarlet, Anna gazed up at him, her grey eyes wide with shock and confusion._ She is most attractive when she blushes _Holmes thought, his head moving toward hers.

Anna found herself mere inches from the detective when there was a loud knock at the door. Holmes pulled sharply away and very quickly, almost too quickly perhaps, disentangled himself from Anna prior to depositing her back onto the chaise. Straightening his tie, he marched determinedly to the door.

It was the bellboy with a telegram. Holmes took it and scanned briefly. "I must leave you," he said offhand, almost cold "Urgent business, can not wait." He left through the open door and Anna heard him cross the landing and slam his door.

"I nearly kissed him," she whispered, her fingers reaching up to touch her lips. The room felt empty now and once more she was alone.

* * *

_And wasn't that interesting!lol_

_I am soooooo sorry it took so long, I had a bit of trouble with block and all but I think I've recovered my flow. _

_Anna now has mixed feelings; I wonder what she'll do next? ; ) _

_In the next chapter, I think it's time for another murder: D _

_Hehehe_

_Right Reviewers!1_

**J. A. Lowell**_ hey! Welcome back! Shall keep polishing for eternity. And I made notes, lots of said's in here for u!_

**Sparx **_spacing write, n I think you'll agree, Edward is interesting!_

**Hermione Holmes **_hair colour hmm well, I prefer him as blonde, though some like him brown. I tell you what, in this chapter he's blonde, but if there is an overall consensus, I shall change it all too brown! And yes, Anna and Holmes: D but enters the elusive Mr Croft! _


	8. Poison, Sisters and Closed Doors

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Finally another edit! Thank you to my beta JA Lowell. She is a saint._

_Please review._

_X_

* * *

_**Poison, Sisters and Closed Doors**_

The woman smiled slowly, watching the small glass phial glint in the light as she idly upended it. The contents tipped slowly, crimson gently graduating into alizarin. It enchanted her, this deadly liquid she held between her fingers. Enough to kill twenty men. More than enough to kill one woman.

"Mariah? Is that you?" A young, tousle-haired man pushed his way past the curtain behind the counter. The woman cast a long glance about the somewhat dubious chemists shop before turning to face the young man. He whistled appreciatively.

"You certainly scrubbed up nice." He smiled and settled himself down on a stool against the wall. "So m'lady," he said mockingly, "To what do I owe this honour?" The woman fixed him with a chilling stare before setting the phial down on the counter, the sharp clink of glass-on-glass the only indication that her emotions ran deeper than the icy exterior she presented.

"I have a problem Miller, and I do not like it," she whispered each word softly, emphasizing them to a point beyond comfort. Miller, however, seemed unmoved and snagged the vial from the counter, casually tossing it from hand to hand. Her eyes narrowed, and he stopped.

"You sure 'bout this Mariah?" he asked, glaring at the small glass through one eye, the other scrunched up, "Pretty powerful stuff."

"But untraceable," the woman smiled, "If I remember correctly."

Miller frowned. "Nothing is untraceable anymore, times move on." He sighed and attempted to flatten his hair, "It'll have to be mixed with something. Nothing clear though."

"Which is," the woman allowed a thin smirk to grace her lips, "Where you come in, my old friend." Miller raised an eyebrow.

"Well," he commented warily, "That's another matter altogether, you see. Did it never occur to you that I might find this sort of thing a bit, well, inconvenient? Or, rather, the consequences? Because, you see, I'm a reputable businessman these days and I can't just --"

A fistful of banknotes settled the issue.

"I'll see to it tomorrow afternoon then. Many thanks for your esteemed patronage." He slipped the phial into his pocket, humming contentedly beneath his breath as he surveyed the small pile of notes.

The woman smirked and turned to leave, careful not to knock the displays of medicines, tinctures, unguents, and powders that perched precariously upon narrow glass shelves along the small shop's walls. She smiled at the second, more useful line of products: acids, bases, minerals, and toxins that occupied less conspicuous positions. London was like that, she mused. You just had to know where to look.

She placed a dainty, gloved hand upon the doorknob, then paused, and turned back. "Miller," she called back over her shoulder. The shopkeeper looked up from his ledger book, perplexity writ across his features. She answered his unspoken question: "You are not to call me Mariah. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, marm," he said, tipping an imaginary hat at her.

"Don't spend it all at once." The tinkling bell above the door masked the authoritative clicking of her heels as she swept out of the shop.

* * *

Silence had fallen over the room in which Anna sat, her fingers still pressed against her lips, and a faint tinge in her cheeks as she recollected what had just happened. They had been so close, just for a second. Anna found herself smiling at the thought and quickly shook her head, groaning. Holmes had left her so abruptly, she had not even had chance to apologise.

He had not left the house. She was quite certain of it; there had been no slam of the door, no hurried footsteps down the stair. Anna stood, gingerly, and pulled her fingers from her lips, which thereafter became pursed with determination.

It had took Anna some time to cross the drawing room and emerge onto the landing, her legs protesting the entire distance. She paused where the corridor split, glancing at Mr Holmes' door. No noise came from in, no agitated violin sounding out. She leaned heavily against the wall, and contemplated the forbidding oak panels.

* * *

He had wanted to kiss her. Holmes tried to push the thought to the back of his mind, feeling a mounting pressure building inside of his head. He felt…confusion. Emotions and facts were twisting before him and fusing. Holmes sank his head into his hands and drew in a wracking breath. Collapsing onto his bed, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. That should not have happened. He was Sherlock Holmes, thinking machine, cold, calculating. Sherlock Holmes did not give in to base human instinct. It came at too high a price. Rolling over, he glanced at the door, realising he had made a clearly false excuse and not even continued the pretence by leaving. He groaned and loosened his tie with a pull at the knot.

His head hurt, _two murders_, he needed a drink.

Whiskey would be wonderful, _a gold digging widow perhaps_, the whiskey was all gone.

A pipe then, _but what of the sister_, no matches.

It called to him from the top drawer of the desk in the corner. That little bottle. It would clear his mind, let him breathe.

It seemed that the thought had no more than passed his mind, yet he held the bottle within his hand. He looked down at it, caressed it like a lover might, his index tracing the peeling label. He hated this need, this reliance. Reaching into the drawer with his other hand, he found a syringe and needle. Slowly, he punctured the seal and drew in the contents of the bottle, watching the glass syringe fill with liquid. He pulled the tie free from his neck and bound his arm with it. If this was his crutch, long may he stand upon it.

After a long moment, he tilted his head forwards from the wall and frowned. The slight movement made his head spin, and as his vision resolved, he felt a soothing calmness seeping through his limbs. The nerves at the tips of his fingers began to tingle, and the faint texture provided by the weave of the fabric beneath his palms was in sudden, sharp relief. The room seemed too bright, and he let his eyelids droop. He knew this effect, this augmentation of the senses. It was as if he had been blind, as if the world were less vibrant in the absence of the drug. He took a deep breath, savouring the acute awareness of his diaphragm contracting. He could smell the soap on the bed linen, the oil in the lamps and the faint trace of a lady's perfume. She was close.

"Anna." He murmured.

She couldn't have heard him, but she responded nonetheless, "Good night, Mr Holmes." He could hear her stiff movements as she passed down the opposite corridor to her own room. He fancied he could hear the taffeta of her dress rustling gently as it brushed through the doorway. The door clicked shut and all was quiet.

* * *

The following morning was something of an artic storm when Watson awoke to breakfast. Holmes sat smoking his pipe, a thunder cloud settled upon his brow and a pile of tobacco on the table before him. His face was pale and drawn, signifying a night filled with drug injections. His eyes were fixed on Anna, while she avoided his gaze by pretending an interest in the society pages of the previous day's papers. Neither noticed Watson's appearance. He coughed. No response. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Anna?" Nothing. Obviously, it was time to try something new. He sat down, and, with a nonchalant smile, offered a more interesting greeting. "Anna, your sister called yesterday for you, but as you were out, I offered my apologies, and suggested that you would return her visit today," He reached for the jam. The sound of the _Times_ falling to the floor confirmed that he had Anna's attention at least. Twisting in his chair, slice of toast in hand, he smiled indulgently, "Is that agreeable to you?"

"My sister?" she asked in disbelief, "I have not seen Alice in over ten years!" Holmes stood at this and made his way over to the table where he poured a cup of tea. Placing a teaspoon with sugar on the saucer, he walked over to Anna and gently handed her the cup.

"She is most eager to see you," he said quietly, drawing away. Anna met his eyes and opened her mouth to speak but seemed to decide against it. Watson observed this exchange with mild curiosity and took a bite of his toast, chewing thoughtfully.

There was a knock at the door and the company all turned to look.

"Come," called Holmes returning to his pipe and paper. The door opened to reveal Mrs Hudson bearing a tray. Setting it on the table next to Watson, she handed him the post and returned his smile.

"Telegram for you Holmes, and a letter from your brother I believe," Watson said, flicking through the pile. He looked up, and noticed that the housekeeper had lingered. "Is there something the matter, Mrs Hudson?"

She took a step forward. "A young man called this morning to see Miss Latimer but I sent him away," she admitted calmly. Watson raised an eyebrow, and Mrs Hudson responded with just the slightest touch of prim venom: "It was only seven o'clock you see, sir."

Anna blushed scarlet. Holmes frowned and buried himself deeper in his paper. Mrs Hudson pulled from her pocket a small slip of paper. "He left a note." Anna took it and tucked it into the folds of her dress. The housekeeper pursed her lips and left, passing Watson with a shake of her head.

"Who is he?" the doctor asked politely of his house guest.

"Edward Croft, he was a friend of my brother's," Anna muttered quickly. The pause grew awkward, and Watson recalled that he'd not received an answer to his inquiry. "What about your sister?" Watson asked, laying down his own letter.

Anna looked hesitantly at him as she stood. "I will visit her this morning," she said after a moment, before leaving the room.

Holmes also stood to leave. "Telegram from Lestrade, he wants to see me," he said arching his back, satisfied only when he had heard the bones click.

Watson eyed him with suspicion. "Be sure to be back for lunch." Holmes ignored him and swept out of the door.

* * *

The man was leaning against the filing cabinet when Holmes arrived, cigarette in one hand, the other causally resting upon his right leg. He was tall, even more so than Holmes, with a sleek mane of dark hair that curled slightly around his ears. This man was handsome in all respects and it was with an air of calm superiority that he turned towards Holmes.

Holmes met his stare with a bemused smile before switching his gaze to a flustered Lestrade who stood nervously at the edge of the room.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, may I present Lord Highcroft, Commissioner of the Scotland Yard and Director of the metropolitan police force," Lestrade indicated the man on the filing cabinet, "Your Lordship, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes inclined his head at Highcroft who nodded briskly in return. "I presume then that it was you, my lord who sent for me from Baker Street?" Holmes enquired politely, folding his hands behind his back. Highcroft exhaled a cloud of smoke, extinguishing the cigarette into an ash tray on top of the filing cabinet.

"Yes it was I. Please accept my most sincere apologies for insisting upon the early hour." Highcroft, who seemed anything but sincere, yawned lazily before sitting down on Lestrade's desk, crossing his ankles to prop himself up. "I'll be brief, as I was with your friend Doctor Watson. You are currently being employed by Miss Annalese Latimer. It will be in all our interests if your investigations into the matter in which you have been directed ceased to continue." Lord Highcroft sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, "Information you have unearthed will, as is expected of you, be bestowed upon us. Do you have any questions?"

Holmes smiled, smirking slightly more than he intended, as he inclined his head again. "Oh no, my Lord, I assure you, your instructions are quite clear. Though," he continued, "As to information, I'm afraid there was little to uncover. It would appear her claims are unfounded."

Highcroft shrugged. "Indeed. Well, as she is still wanted in connection to a murder, ensure that she does not leave London in the near future." He stood, and plucked his hat from the desk. Settling it firmly on his head, he shook Holmes' hand and acknowledged Lestrade, "Inspector, it was a pleasure, as always."

Upon the Commissioner's exit, Holmes gave the Inspector a glance that spoke more clearly than words.

Lestrade sank tiredly into his chair and let out an exasperated groan. "Oh don't look at me like that Holmes, you _are_ self employed."

* * *

"Thank you for meeting with me again today. It was most kind of you," Edward Croft said playfully, his bright blue eyes twinkling merrily.

Anna brushed aside his teasing comment briskly. "Nonsense, you are the one doing me the kindness. My sister is a dragon, at least, she used to be," Anna murmured the last part, carefully keeping a slight distance between them.

Edward glanced down on her before looking ahead. "At what house did you say she was staying?" he asked as a distraction. Anna frowned and glanced down at the piece of paper in her hand where a large 61 was written, then at the street, before returning to the paper.

Edward covered a smile, and reached across the gap to turn the paper the right way up. "The houses in this street only go up to twenty," he commented wryly, looking ahead once more. Anna moaned, burying her face in her hands.

Edward laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You know," he remarked, "I have a brother, we look very similar. Same build, same hair, even same eyes." His own blue orbs twinkled brightly, "He works for someone in the government, something of a spy." Edward's face barely changed through this tale and Anna watched him intently as they continued on their way. "We do not always agree on things. I on his job -- I do not like his employer -- and he on the choices I make with my life."

He paused, and Anna quirked an eyebrow, silently imploring him to continue. After a moment, he did so. "We quarrelled and took different paths. Either way, we had gone a year or so without seeing each other when there he was standing in front of me, at the party where I met you. So we talked. And it helped."

Edward shrugged then laughed. "There! Take my pearls of wisdom and talk to your sister. Who knows when you'll next have the chance?"

Anna slid her arm through his, and smiled at him. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Oh, any time," he replied dryly.

* * *

Holmes paid the cabby who brought him from Scotland Yard to Whitechapel, barely noticing the incorrect change, his attention focussed on the alley to his right. A street urchin winked at him, before turning tail, and dashing off down between the narrow walls, hurtling past two old women carrying their washing.

Holmes nodded to the two women, who cackled in delight at such a fine a gentleman and called after him as he followed the alley along. It was a different face of London that presented itself here: women, if of a comely face, displayed their "wares", if not, kept to shadows, and small children in tattered rags chased each other through the grime and the filth.

This he ignored, turning abruptly left where the alley spilt, and coming face to face with a formidable looking door. It barred the way past a large stone wall, but Holmes raised a fist and banged upon it heartily, the sound resonating against the walls. There was silence for a few moments before the door began to creak open.

"Do you 'ave to knock so bloody loud?" a female voice grumbled as the door was pulled open, barely wide enough for a man to step through. Holmes rolled his eyes and slid past the door. Waiting for him on the other side was a girl no more than eighteen, matted curls pulled into a knot at the back of her head, eyes dark from lack of sleep and displeasure at the sight of Holmes written across her face.

"This had better be good, Holmes," she muttered, yawning as she turned down the side alley that was barred to the rest of Whitechapel.

"As if it would be anything but, Hattie, my dear," Holmes called after her retreating form. She whipped round suddenly, arm outstretched with hand raised to place upon Holmes' lips.

"Shut it," she whispered fiercely, her Irish lilt catching on the words, "Do you want to wake the whole house?" Holmes smiled against her fingers, and took her hand gently in his own. Hattie Shenaid gripped his hand tightly for a minute before retracting hers. "Come on," she muttered hurriedly. Holmes followed her silently as she opened a door and pulled him inside. They had entered a kitchen, where a pot bubbled in the fire. At the table sat the urchin who had winked at Holmes, his mouth stuffed full with bread. Hattie walked up to him and pushed him off his stool.

"Get home Joe, ye Mam will be wanting the rest of that loaf," The boy nodded and took off out the door. Hattie smiled as the door closed, and then turned back to Holmes.

"Joe fetched me," she answered Holmes' questioning glance, "Now, Mr Holmes, this is a surprise." A grin graced her face as she poured herself a drink. Holmes assessed the young girl before him; her tall form seemed more angular than normal.

"You have not been eating," he pointed out.

She made a sound of annoyance, "Neither 'ave you," she retorted. "What do you want?"

"Help," Holmes replied throwing a large brown envelope on the table between them. Hattie glanced at it, before sitting down wearily at the end of the bench.

"I need to know who killed that man," he said calmly as she pulled the grainy prints from the envelope. She pulled a face at the pictures of Mr Talbot's corpse.

"Why'd you bother getting these developed?," she questioned, peering at the wound in the back of the corpse's head, "You should have just sent for me."

Holmes waved this aside. "His name was Arthur Talbot, a lawyer,"

Hattie looked up in surprise. "Posh bloke from New street?"

Holmes nodded.

"Now who'd want him dead?" Sitting back in her chair, Hattie bit one of her nails absently and yawned. "Well it weren't any of us, if that's what you are thinking" she said confidently, daring him to challenge her.

Holmes scowled, knowing she what she wanted, and sat down dejectedly at the table. "How do you know?" he asked reluctantly.

Hattie gave a slight, satisfied laugh. "Course I know the ins and outs of Whitechapel and all those who work for me and the boss, and none of em would do a job like that without permission," she leaned forward, "We aint just some frenzied organisation who kills on whim. These things are planned, with detail."

Holmes jumped up and began pacing the floor. His brow was furrowed in concentration and he kept snapping his fingers, trying to solve the problem. "Then who? If not Whitechapel, then who would?" he asked himself.

"Any heavy in London who aint loyal to his area would do it for a few bob, they're a penny a dozen," she stood slowly and placed a hand on the pacing man's arm. "If it's any help I'll check with Hackney, Townsend might know something." Hattie sighed and removed her hand, "You know Holmes, it probably aint even worth the bother."

"But you will check?" asked Holmes, gripping her hand. She nodded. He released her, and walked over to the door.

"It was nice to see you again," he said quietly, opening the door, surrounding himself in light.

Hattie waved him away. "Get out. I want to go back to bed."

He gave her a rare grin and stepped into the alley, carefully closing the door behind him.

* * *

"Please wait here, Miss," the butler said as he glided across the polished floor towards a door on their right. Anna was keenly aware of how alone she was, but took heart in the knowledge that Edward was waiting outside the door, no doubt smoking against a lamppost. She could run back to him whenever her courage failed her.

It had been many years since the two sisters had last met; Alice had been much older than Anna. She took a nervous step into what was most likely termed the hall, but was by far the largest she had ever seen. Clutching at her hat, she turned in a circle to take it all in. The shining door handles, the polished stair rails. Its grandeur was almost intimidating, yet somehow reassuring.

"Hallo Anna."

Anna spun round to face the stairs. her sister stood at the height of the stair, the very picture of casual elegance, one hand on her hip, the other carrying a thick, leather bound book.

Anna curtsied slowly, "Your Grace," she said, taking a hurried step back as the Duchess floated down the stairs.

"Anna, dear, Anna. We are still sisters, are we not?" The Duchess smiled and descended the last step, the blue silk of her dress rustling slightly as she did so.

"Please do follow me." she insisted, leading the way across the hall, to a pair of double doors. A footman appeared from the shadows and bowed, pulling open the doors.

"Thank you Peter," the Duchess swept into the room. Anna followed her timidly, her petite figure seeming even smaller in comparison to her surroundings.

The drawing room was modestly furnished: a small writing desk stood in one corner, and facing a pair of French windows were two settees, elegantly decorated with pale pink stripes. The Duchess made her way to one of these and sat down, her dress fanning out around her. Anna sat opposite her, removing her hat and gloves.

A bell was rung and tea sent for. All the while, the Duchess appraised her sister, her eyes taking in the pale face and thin body.

"You are not scared of me, are you?" she asked reassuringly, "I know I did not make the best of efforts when we were young but I would very much like to try now." She smiled at Anna, who returned it briefly. Alice tilted her head slightly to one side, "Something vexes you?"

Anna opened her mouth, and then closed it again.

"It's been ten years," she managed finally, avoiding her sister's eyes.

"I know. I have been in India," the Duchess's smile faltered, "My husband died a few weeks ago, so I brought the children home to England." Anna glanced at her sister who sat, not in mourning, but in fondest memory.

"I am sorry," Anna said softly. Alice looked up.

"Do not be. We had a wonderful life, you would have liked him very much," she paused, and looked off into the distance, as if viewing the past. After a moment, she refocused upon Anna, "But it is in the past now."

They spoke of many things. Who's, what's and where's. Of memories long forgotten and relationships never forged. It was with this they moved on to talk of their brother and father.

"He did not kill himself, Alice," Anna confided, "He would not."

Alice looked perplexed. "I wish I could be so sure, Anna dear, but I had not seen Thomas for quite some time. I do not believe I could say that I knew anything of his state of mind."

"Nonetheless, I am still having the circumstances investigated," Anna said, her voice calm and determined.

Her sister smiled. "Ah yes, Mr Holmes. He is a quite a character," Alice smiled.

Anna blushed, which did not go unnoticed by the elder woman. "A very handsome detective, is not he? And good at his job I hear!"

"Yes, he and Doctor Watson have been most helpful during the last few weeks," Anna admitted.

"But we can not have you living with them forever," Alice stated, "You will have to come with me." Anna's mouth fell open in surprise.

"Come live with you, in Scotland?" she asked in disbelief.

Alice smiled at her expression. "In Fief yes, we have a castle," she laughed, "By way of apologising, for not being here for you. It would mean so much to me, and you could meet your niece and nephew."

Anna tried to speak, but found she could not find the words to describe how she felt. Elation at the prospect of rediscovering her family and dismay at the very thought of leaving London, her friends and Watson. Her brother's death was still unsolved. There was so much.

"Alice," she whispered, "I cannot. I simply – I cannot leave."

* * *

_Thank you to all reviewers._


	9. Tobacco, Tea and Tears

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_A quick note before we begin. I would like to thank all the reviewers from previous chapters who I have not yet thanked and intend to within this chapter. Once I've written it! Your never ending help and support is priceless! ____ Thank you!_

* * *

It was strange to think how easily things fell apart, the woman mused to herself. She rested her head against the pane of the dark window, listening to the moaning of the wind, and the scratching of twigs against the shutters. She had been so close to the prize, and yet somehow everything she'd worked for had slipped further away.

The woman glanced up at the clock then back at the window. The rained drummed against it before being repelled onto the ground below. It pressed down upon her, affirming the very nature of her crime. Standing reluctantly, she glided across the room, to the door, straightening her hat and gloves as she did so.

"Be careful, milady," the guard in the corner called to her, "The rain's coming down frightful hard." The woman ignored him and pushed the door open. She hurried out of the warm waiting room, welcoming the bitter cold of the rain swept platform. The wind whipped around her and brought with it the sound of the approaching train. It hissed into the station with it's usually issues of thick smoke. A single door sprang open in the fore of the carriages and the man stepped down onto the platform.

"Why do the majority of our lives seem to revolve around trains?" he called to her, slamming the door behind him with a click. The woman smiled as he kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

"Welcome to the New Forest," she whispered into his ear, as they reluctantly pulled apart. He returned her smile.

"You know, I have not seen this beautiful place since my last visit since," he paused and shook his head, "I am foolish." The woman reached up and pulled him into a passionate embrace.

"I care not," she murmured as their warm breath mingled amongst the rain. They walked away from the station under the suspicious eye of the guard, who took the man's bag to the horse and carriage that awaited them. Tossing them up to the footman, the guard tipped his hat at the woman before shuffling out of the rain to his waiting room to sit and stare at them once more. Once seated opposite each other in the carriage, the woman slipped her gloves off and outstretched her arm, pulling the man towards her. He smiled indulgently at her, cupping her face with one hand and stroking the inside of her wrist with the other. She leant in to kiss him.

"No," he said suddenly pulling away, "We have other things to attend to." The woman glared at him, before pushing herself off her seat, gliding onto the floor.

"And I'll get what I want, Charles," she murmured softly running her hand up his leg. He looked down at her incredulously.

"Oh really?" he paused for a moment to glance out of the window and then with an exasperated sigh pulled down the blind.

"Is it done?" the woman said grasping his cravat and twisting it around her fingers. The man nodded.

"Everything will be ready for tonight and my return," he replied, throwing his hat into the corner. The woman smirked her approval.

"We will have it all soon," she whispered, caressing the side of his face, touching his dark hair, "We will have it all."

* * *

The maid paused outside the drawing room to press an ear against the door. Raised voices were coming from within: the low and calm tone was her mistress and the slightly lighter one, her guest. The sister.

The maid glanced dubiously down at the tray of tea in her arms and half turned away from the door. Then the voices stopped. The maid turned her ear back to the door. Silence. Praying she was not about to be scolded, she knocked fervently on the door.

Anna turned toward the French windows, taking the opportunity to regain a sense of composure. She heard the clatter of the tea tray being set down then a mouse like scurrying as the maid left the room. "I hope you do not think me rude dear sister, but," she paused.

"I think I should go," Anna said finally. Alice nodded mutely. Retrieving her hat and gloves from the settee, Anna twisted them wretchedly in her hands. "I'm sorry Alice, but I must know the truth and there is so much keeping me in London," she whispered, desperation seeping into her voice.

Alice drew in a choked breath, as if fighting the urge to cry. "I think I understand," she murmured finally.

"I saw a gate in the garden," Anna looked out through the glass, "I think I will depart that way. By your leave, your Grace," and she left through the French doors and out into the blinding sunshine. She then made her way across the little path that ran along side the pristine lawn and ran round the side of the house.

The tradesmen's gate loomed ahead and Anna faintly wondered how she would open it. It was a great relief when she saw a familiar face, poke over the top looking impatiently down on her. "Are you planning on staying there all day?" he called dryly, lifting the latch with ease. The gate swung open, catching the gravel as it pivoted around.

Anna smiled and heaved it open to reveal a concerned looking Edward Croft, his dark curls playing in the breeze.

"Hallo Edward," she called softly, slipping into the street behind the house. Refusing to look back, she tugged the gate closed behind her. Edward looked intently at her, noting the tears still fresh on her face. He reached down and brushed them from her cheeks.

Anna felt a sudden painful twist, remembering Holmes doing the same thing. Shaking her head, as if to clear it, she took his hand and leaned on his arm, smelling the reassuring presence that she associated with him and autumn days spent in parks. Still that pain lurked in her stomach and she frowned faintly.

They walked around the corner of the garden wall and out on to the street. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement not to speak of what had just taken place for Edward neither enquired nor did she offered any information. It was in this fashion they continued until curiously interrupted.

"Croft?"

They turned.

Across the road, a man dressed in bottle green had and pinstriped trousers waved his arms and hat, in a furious display of trying to attract their attention. "I say old chap, it's Harvings! From Oxford!" Edward looked on confusion before his face melted into a sly smile.

Anna smiled to herself as the man narrowly avoided traffic in his attempt to cross over to their side of the street. Edward pulled him forward the last few steps by his arm, shaking his hand warmly. "Harvings, it has been a long time!" Edward said with what seemed to be genuine delight, his hand still clasped to his friend's. The other man returned the grip full strength before he turned his head slightly and caught sight of Anna. Edward, noticing his friend's distraction, twisted round to face Anna.

"Where are my manners?" he said, winking at her, "John Harvings, Miss Anna Latimer. Miss Latimer, Harvings was," he paused, "A friend at Oxford. I believe we shared a study."

Harvings stepped forward and took Anna's hand. Sweeping down low, he kissed it gently, raising his eyes to meet hers.

"You always had very fine taste, Croft, very fine indeed," he commented mischeviously. Anna felt blood rush to her cheeks and grow warm at the passing compliment. Harvings seemed to enjoy the effects of his words as he grinned cheerfully down at her.

"Shall we to tea, my dears?" Edward interrupted, replacing his hat. He graciously held out his arm to Anna and they fell into a companionable walk which on first glance would appear to be the most natural of things, Anna leaning ever so slightly on Edward with each step and his firm grip upon her arm.

They made berth in at a large, fashionable tea room opposite a small square, where a group of travelling performers were vying for the crowd's attention. The smells of earl grey and of teacakes wafted on the air whilst they sat.

Harvings ordered whilst Anna looked around with obvious enjoyment and as she did so caught Edward's eye as he rolled them good naturedly at his old friend. His own dry sarcasm contrasted perfectly with his friend's loud, excitable nature, which made for interesting conversation and distracting company. Anna listened intently, absently nibbling on her own teacake.

"Shall I be mother?" Edward asked, reaching for the fresh pot. Anna rapped his hand smartly with her teaspoon, taking the handle of the pot herself.

"I am not incapable of pouring tea, Mr Croft," she said quietly, taking Harvings' offered cup and saucer.

"No," Edward consented, "Yet you are incapable of taking tea with your sister. How odd." He gave her a wry smile which she pointedly chose to ignore by pouring only herself and Harvings any tea. She sat sipping her tea primly, causing Edward to throw her a disdainful look and Harvings to guffaw loudly. He reached for the pot and poured it himself, clattering his spoon loudly against the side of his cup, fixing her with a stare. Anna merely smiled at him, turning her attention to Harvings who began enthusiastically telling her of his time spent in America, clearly delighted to have an audience. Anna listened politely, but found that her thoughts strayed to her sister. She tried to turn them back to the conversation, but found the task to be unnecessary, for Harvings' exclamation interrupted her inner dialogue most efficiently.

"Why the hell not?" Harvings voice was loud as he glared at Edward across the table, who met his stare with an equal of fiery intensity.

"No, William," he said quietly, glancing at Anna. Ann returned his look, confused.

"No, what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as Harvings gave Edward a meaningful look before turning towards her, expression changed.

"My dear Miss Latimer, how would you like to accompany Croft and I to a…" he paused to grin, "Ball, if you will, at the Covent Garden Hall tonight?"

Anna stuttered her surprise. "Sir, I know not what to say, for surely you mean the society finale of the season?" She looked from him to Edward who avoided her gaze, "Is it not a masquerade?"

Harvings leaned in closer. "Such is fit for kings. Everyone will be there but of course no one will know who!" He sat back, evidently pleased with himself for thinking of the invitation. Anna's mind raced with problems.

"What of chaperones?" she voiced timidly. Harvings' smile grew wider.

"Who will know you are there?" he whispered gleefully. Anna bit her lip.

"I have no costume!"

"You provide a dress, I will locate a mask!"

She had been unable to refuse. Harvings left hurriedly to make preparations, leaving Anna and Edward alone as they left the sweet smelling tea rooms and crossed the square to walk the short distance to Baker Street. an awkwardness hung in the air between them, heavy and foreboding. She could feel his need to speak and yet he did not until they reached the corner. "Miss Latimer," he began hesitantly, "I do not wish you to feel pressured to attend tonight." She held up a single gloved finger, cutting him off..

"You do not wish me to go," she suggested, adjusting her gloves and brushing a crumb off the edge of her coat.

Edward sighed. "It is not that, though I can not help but feel our sudden companionship is not appropriate."

Anna eyed him, amused. "Mr Croft, you do not strike me as a man particularly interested in propriety. I admit, I am little wary myself," she smiled up at him, "I shall not attend if you wish it so." His pulled a face and very quickly caught hold of her arm, pulling her to him. With one hand on her waist, the other on her elbow, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek.

"I will see you tonight," he said firmly pulling away, "Eight at Baker Street." Anna stared at him in wonderment as Edward walked away, back towards the crowded square.

* * *

Holmes yawned loudly and sat down on a chair in the corner of the small room, clasping both hands and legs before him. Watson looked at him curiously. "Why are we here, Holmes?" he asked looking around for another chair, yet expecting there to be only one. He sighed and decided to make do with the table that stood between the two men. Holmes smiled broadly and winked.

"You will see Watson," was his reply. They waited in silence for a moment. Holmes fiddled with his cufflinks, then declared that they needed polishing. Watson nodded and smiled like a good friend, inwardly questioning his friend's sanity.

Their little room was one of many that lined the corridors of the London Bank, each grey and impersonal, containing one chair and one table for the use of their cliental. A clerk would arrange for their safe deposit box to be brought to the room on a small trolley, done in a manner that was very proper and above board.

Watson had been something of awed when he had entered the vast building, whereas Holmes had strode briskly to a clerk's desk and handed over a key. How that was possibly enough to gain access to a safe deposit box was questionable, Watson thought dubiously.

They now sat waiting in this little room when there was a knock on the door and a little man hurried in, struggling under the weight of a huge metal box. He dropped it unceremoniously onto the table, privately cursing its owner.

"Your key sir?" he wheezed. Holmes handed it over nonchalantly and watched as the clerk inserted it into the lock and turned. The little man then nodded his balding head and left through the door. As soon as he had left, Holmes jumped up eagerly and turned the box round to face him.

Watson peered at it and asked, "Whose is it?"

Holmes merely smiled, pulling open the lid and lifting out the contents. A large wad of papers bound with ribbon emerged in Holmes' hands. "This is the life's work of Lord Henry Latimer, Watson, and if it contains what I believe it must, it will be of the greatest help to our investigation," Holmes whispered gleefully.

Watson leaned doubtfully around Holmes to read the title sheet.

"Botany and its influences on my life," he read before beginning to chuckle, "Of great help, Holmes, I'm sure!" Holmes frowned before sinking, abashed, into his chair. Resolutely, he pulled the stack of paper towards him and began to read, turning the pages hurriedly.

Watson began to leaf through the remaining papers in the bottom of the box. He chuckled occasionally, coming across amusing titles.

"The curse that is parsley, Fox Dung, a stimulant," at the latter he thoughtfully shoved it into Holmes' upturned hat which lay on the table. Holmes continued to hurry through the pages, skimming each line.

"Where, in God's name did you pull this one from Holmes?" Watson asked leaning back in his chair. Holmes ignored him for a moment until he sighed and set down his pile.

"The clerk at Mr Talbot's office. Upon finding the information about the account he forwarded it to me as promised. It contained details of a key in the name of Lord Henry to be sent to his son, Thomas, upon his death. The key was to be returned to Talbot and so it was, or so I was told."

There was a moment's pause whilst Watson drank in this new information readily, staring at the safe deposit box with a little more respect. And then, quite suddenly.

"By God!" Watson suddenly exclaimed, jumping up. Holmes barely moved.

"Indeed," he drawled, holding a scrap of paper up to the light. Watson shook his head feverishly and pointed at something on the table.

"No Holmes! The lid!"

Holmes looked up expectantly as Watson pounced on the lid and peered at it. The lid was made of the same dull heavy metal as the box and was lined with faded blue velvet. In the topmost hand corner, there was a small jagged tear where the material had been ripped away and hastily replaced.

Holmes leant over and pulled back the velvet to reveal a thin, leather bound notebook, bound by a perished piece of elastic. His face lit up with delight and he quickly slipped the book from its hiding place, holding it up to the light and then close to his nose.

"I do believe, Watson," he muttered quietly, "That this is the clue we are looking for." Watson smiled, a little smugly for his entire discovery, puffing out his chest in pride. Holmes eyed him, amusedly and returned to his chair.

"Let us begin," he said, turning open the cover of the small notebook and began to read aloud.

_It is with a heavy hand that I pen the words that will almost certainly carve my family apart. My son's welfare must however, be taken into account as I made such a poor example for him as a father._

_For some time now my suspicion over my daughter in law's guise has been growing and so I began discreetly invest…_

* * *

The air was cool against her skin as she closed the front door behind her and took a deep breath of heavy London air. Harvings stood waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, bouncing from one foot to the other in an effort to stay warm. "Miss Latimer!" He cried jovially, "You look positively enchanting." Anna found herself blushing a little and took his offered hand up into the carriage.

"Miss Latimer," a voice murmured from beside her. She jumped slightly and greeted an already masked Edward with a smile.

"Mr Croft, you are surely skulking in that corner?" He laughed.

"Me? I very rarely skulk, my dear." They were silent as Harvings clambered in and perched himself opposite them, humming a waltz cheerfully. Edward raised a lazy eyebrow and lay back in the seat. The carriage moved off with a jolt and Anna found herself having to grasp the edge of the seat firmly to avoid landing in either gentleman's lap.

As they neared Covent Garden, Harvings grew more and more excitable, like a small child approaching Christmas. He was practically bouncing on his seat as they drew up amongst a crowd of horses, coaches and people, all jostling to enter. "I do believe I see Lady March," Harvings cried excitedly, "I simply must commandeer her from that frightful husband of hers. Naval officer don't you know?" He scrambled out of the carriage into the bustle of the arriving guests and was promptly lost to them in the crowd. Anna smiled into the back of her gloved hand and turned to her companion.

"Is it not the point of a masquerade that no one knows who you are?" Edward chuckled softly and pulled his mask over his ears so it rested on his hair line.

"Oh but Miss Latimer, this is London. Everyone knows who you are."

It was intoxicating. The sights and sounds, each individual rush of colour fall upon her senses as she entered the room. It was so decadent and unlike any thing she knew. Someone handed her a glass and as she raised her glass to her lips, Anna felt someone behind her, reach up and gently touch her hair.

"Is it not the point of a masquerade that no one knows who you are?" a voice whispered in her ear. Anna felt her mask being pulled out of her hair and placed over her eyes, she blinked as it fell into place. She felt oddly liberated and as she stood there watching everyone move around her, her heart quickened. For a moment all thoughts of her sister, her brother and her father flew from her head making her heart soar.

* * *

Baker Street was decidedly quiet that evening Holmes thought cheerfully settling himself by the fire. Watson had already retired, complaining of a headache brought about by the smell of the chemicals Holmes kept bubbling over the Bunsen on the dresser. He hummed as he picked up his violin and letting the bow slide across the strings, it scratched painfully before Holmes realised that his bow was in dire need of some wax. He set it down the instrument sighing and glanced at the mantle clock. Ten thirty. Holmes did not bother replacing the violin in it's case each night and had sent the box to cellar as he had kept tripping over it.

"I do believe," he muttered to himself, "That there is some wax in the case." Cheerful once more, he put on his slippers and headed down the stairs towards the cellar.

The masquerade was in full swing as the eleventh hour struck. Champagne was slightly more intoxicating than she realised, Anna thought as she slipped through a curtained door into a quiet corridor. Sighing, she leaned back against the wall and found there was little she could do but laugh. How happy she felt! "I have not danced so much for so long!" she said aloud.

"Nor will you again," a voice answered. Edward stuck his masked face through the curtain grinning. "For tomorrow, your back will ache and your feet will be in agony. Then," he said seriously, "You shall never dance again." Anna continued to laugh, her body grateful for the support of the wall.

"You are drunk Mr Croft!" she declared. He looked at her as if hurt, before replying.

"Nay I am not. Merely, I will be a little delicate in the morning." He grinned once more and staggered into the corridor, espying a small sofa further a long the wall. Edward collapsed on it in one corner and closed his eyes. Anna pushed herself off the wall and walked slowly toward him, the corridor feeling strangely at an angle She had almost made to the seat when she tripped over Edward outstretched legs, stumbling onto his chest.

"Forgive me," she murmured hastily, pulling herself away but as she did so he caught her hand. Both his bright blue eyes were open now and looking deep into her own. Gently, he pulled her back toward him until they were only inches apart.

"No Miss Latimer," he said quietly, "Forgive me." Then, very softly as if afraid, he kissed her. Part of her panicked, but some other brave part took control and brought her hand up to his face. He pulled away to look at her but upon seeing no regret his eyes lit up. They sat in silence for a while as she stared up at the lights, her head swimming with the excitement of it all. Anna turned her head and smiled at Edward who was slumped at the other end of the seat. He smiled back, taking her hand and intertwining his fingers in hers, raising them to his lips. Suddenly, there was a rustle at the curtain.

"I say, Edward are you here?" It was Harvings, his jovial face creased with anxiety. The pair on the sofa sat up hurriedly. Anna tore her eyes off Edward and played with a bead on her dress.

"What?" Edward asked impatiently. Harvings frowned and stepped into the corridor.

"For God's sake man," he cried, pulling Edward out his seat, "She's here, you fool, your wife!" Anna's hands stopped moving. Had she heard right? She raised her head slowly to look at Edward, who stood rigidly with his back to her and Harvings' hands on his shoulders. Harvings carried on talking, but to Anna the whole world slowed down, it had gone silently. In her mind, she asked Edward questions, begged him to tell her it was not true. Instead she bit her lip to stop the approaching tears and stood, turning to leave. Edward turned suddenly, grapping her arm with his hand.

"Dance with me." It was an order, yet she could not obey. She pulled at her arm but he held firm. "Dance," he murmured, "Please just dance." He took her hand and walked past Harvings, out in the crowded ball room. Softly, he pulled her to him, putting her hands and arms into positions, her mind unable to make her body move. He hummed the tune of the waltz against her hair as they moved slowly across the room. Anna breathed in the scent of him as she leant against his chest.

"I do not want to hear why," she whispered quietly, "I do not need to." She pulled away from him as the music faded away. He released one of her hands, raising the other to walk her off the floor. Had anyone been looking at them they could have easily mistaken the couple for casual dance partners were it not for the tight grip in which he held her hand.

Harvings was waiting at the edge of the crowd for them. He held out his arm for Anna which she took dazedly. Edward bent over her hand to kiss it, whispering as he did. "Forgive me." Then he was gone, striding across the floor to where an woman sat surrounded by men, her chestnut hair glowing in the lamp light as she laughed. He approached her with a mock bow and held out a hand. She rose and took it, kissing him on the cheek as she did so.

Anna swallowed her tears and turned away. "I should like to go home now please, Mr Harvings."

* * *

Holmes had been rummaging in the cellar for a good hour before he found the wax and was now idly climbing the cellar stairs. As he reached the top, he heard the front door open and someone entering. He leant on the door frame at the top of the stairs and watched as Anna stepped into the hall, a mask hanging limply in one hand. Her small body shivered slightly as she removed her cloak and hung it by the door. Rubbing a hand across her cheeks, she stepped painfully onto the stairs and slowly climbed the stairs. Holmes watched this silently, noting the misjudged steps and way she clutched at the banister. Once he was satisfied she was in her room, he followed Anna's steps up the stairs, catching a smell of cigarette smoke left by her dress. He lingered outside her door, wondering whether he should not and enquire after her health but decided against it. Instead, he went back into the sitting room and picked up his violin bow.

* * *

Anna did not rise until everyone else had gone out for the day. She glanced at herself in the mirror only to see a pale little shadow looking back. Angry, she turned away and hurried into the sitting room. For some time she tried to read, but found herself unable to concentrate on the words. The pain at the base of her spine was mounting disturbingly so and Watson would not return till much later. The book was thrown across the room some time later and Anna looked around for something to distract herself, her eyes settling on the brandy in the corner. It called out invitingly to her and as she held it up the light, the rich coloured glinted warmly. Taking a deep breath, she removed the top and held it up to her lips, letting the liquid burn the back of her throat.

* * *

Watson hurried up the steps of Baker Street and let himself in at the door, having been out all day at the hospital. The warm familiar smell of baking filled his nose and as he hung up his coat and hat, smiled.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called, beginning to mount the stairs. The housekeeper's grey head poked around the kitchen door, coated in a dusting of flour.

"Cook has just baked some scones. Shall I send some up?" she said by way of greeting. Watson smiled at her and organised for some tea to be sent up as well. Halfway up the stairs, she called him back.

"Miss Latimer has not been out all day sir. She rose at ten, but I believe she has retired to her room again." Watson frowned at this announcement and continued up the stairs.

He remained in his room till around six, when the prospects of writing up his notes seemed less satisfying and headed to the sitting room. He opened the door and immediately headed towards the brandy decanter, which on closer inspection appeared to be quite empty.

"You know John," a dry voice commented from behind him, nearly causing him to drop his glass, "That brandy is not necessarily good for you before dinner?" Watson turned to see Anna, curled up in Holmes' chair, her back arched up around the cushions and her head tilted towards the fire.

"Anna! What is wrong?" Watson exclaimed anxiously rushing to her side. Anna smiled at him, reassuringly.

"Absolutely nothing," she murmured, taking his hand. He bent down to look at her more closely. Anna turned back to the fire, resting her head upon his shoulder and sighed.

"Nothing what so ever."

Before raising a half empty glass to her lips.

* * *

An hour or so later, Holmes bounded energetically into the room to witness Anna throwing up into a bowl.

"Miss Latimer," he greeted uncertainly, as she heaved into the copper tub Watson held for her, rubbing her back gently. He turned his eyes to Holmes and said in a tone that was intended seriously but woven with mild amusement.

"Anna has consumed rather a large amount of brandy, and is now learning why one should not drink brandy before dinner," Holmes' face fell.

"How much did she drink?" he cried dramatically, running towards the decanter. He picked it up and watched the few drops slosh lifelessly around near the bottom. Watson stood and stretched out his arms.

"Do not be upset, at least she did not find the whiskey," he whispered cheerfully to Holmes. Holmes sat down, sulking.

"As her Doctor, I think you should reprimand her for being a bad patient," he argued, sullenly. Anna looked up from her bowl, deadly white, her eye's wet from crying. Holmes met her eye and nodded at her.

"Or perhaps she has learnt her lesson?" he murmured as Watson pulled the whiskey out from behind the bible on the bookshelf.

"Indeed," Watson said settling himself in the chair next to Holmes, "I needn't fear for her doing it again." Anna groaned miserably, setting down the bowl before curling up into a small ball.

"It hurts," she whispered, clutching at her head.

Watson chuckled unsympathetically,

"Then you shouldn't have done it," he commented. Holmes stood to get himself a glass, and rested a hand gently on Anna's tawny head of ruffled curls.

"It'll pass in a few hours," he muttered softly, remembering a time not so long ago when he'd felt the same. Holmes shuddered at the memory before surprising both Watson and Mrs Hudson by eating all of his dinner and managing a small coffee as well.

After sometime, when Anna stopped had emptied the contents of her stomach and lay quietly on the settee watching Holmes and Watson play chess. Watson was, of course, loosing.

"Damn you Holmes!" Watson finally exclaimed, "Can you for once lose to make me feel better." Holmes gave a rare laugh, sinking back into his chair, hands arched together before him. Anna opened an eye to watch Holmes and then turned her head slightly so she had a better view of him.

The fire was, as always playing to occasion, lighting up the corners of his face and the tufts of his hair. His eyes were sharp and bright as he watched Watson calculate his mistakes, and there was laughter waiting in his smile. He was younger than Watson, with less vigour for life but more restlessness, waiting for a challenge worthy of his attention.

Anna watched him now with both eyes fully open, her lips parted slightly in wonder as she took delight in discovering the angles of his face. Even the gently point of his nose made her want to smile. Then it stopped. He's like Edward, she realised in that moment. The same mannerisms. Less humour but the same droll attitude to life.

Holmes sat in his chair, a little uncomfortable at Anna scrutiny. He had noticed of course. He played with the idea in his mind, as she closed her prying eyes. Watson grumbled himself as he read the financial column of the paper, he would be asleep within moments. Subconsciously, Holmes began counting.

_5_

_4_

Watson turned the page slowly.

_3_

_2_

His eyelids began to droop and then……

_1_

Watson's head lolled against the back of the blue armchair, the paper falling from his hands at precisely a quarter past nine.

Holmes smiled contentedly, extending his fingers, hearing the bones click with satisfaction. He rose to his feet with easy grace and glanced at the clock.

"Miss Latimer, I feel like a stroll. Would you care to join me," Holmes asked politely and then remembering her early escapades that evening, "It might help clear your head." Anna smiled weakly and pulled her shawl from the back of her chair.

* * *

The man stood at the foot of the bed, his handsome face smooth and calm, dressed to ride. A telegram had arrived, announcing that the plan had been set into motion. It would only be a matter of time. The woman lay asleep on the bed, the white sheets wrapped around her body in exotic swirls and cloud like flourishes. Her long, deep brown hair hung in matted curls that trailed down her neck. The man reached out and tucked one of behind her ear.

Then sighing, he walked out of the open door, pulling it shut behind him. The dark of the night crept up around him as he slipped through the house like a shadow, avoiding the servants. The groom stood ready with his horse, and a quick toss of a coin sealed his lips. Kicking his horse, it reared onto its hind legs. Silhouetted against the pale moon, he looked almost fantastical, a night rider, galloping with the moon. He wheeled the horse around and cantered off along the gravel drive and into the night.

From her window the woman watched silently, drawing the sheets up around her as the cold air washed at her skin. There was no turning back now.

* * *

Anna drew her shawl up around her shoulders as they descended down the steps into the October night and the cold air hit them. If Holmes noticed this, he said nothing. They walked in silence down the street, passing the glitter street lights and glancing up as a cab occasionally rolled past.

Holmes watched Anna curiously, returning the favour as it were. She were far to delicate and childlike to have no reason to turn to a drink she had probably not come into great contact with before moving in with two bachelors. That was another issue that had to be addressed. She would not be able to stay much longer he feared.

"You are upset, Miss Latimer," Holmes stated bluntly as they turned a corner, leaving Baker Street behind. Anna continued to look at the floor, drawing in deep breaths, her head in agony.

"I have had better days, Mr Holmes," she replied shortly, reaching out a hand for support against the wall. He tsked through his teeth and took hold of her arm, guiding her down onto a wall. She sank onto it, burying her head in her arms.

"I feel so ashamed," she muttered finally, turning her head in hands so she could see him. Holmes sat down wearily next to her, preparing himself for the trivialities of a woman's problems. She moaned and stared at the increasingly familiar floor.

"You see women," Anna said softly, "And you know who they are, which gentleman they are with and then wonder if the gentleman's wife knows who her husband is walking with. You smile at them but then gossip about them later." She smiled bitterly and looked at Holmes, "I nearly became one of those women today."

Holmes sighed heavily, "Where have you been Miss Latimer?"

* * *

The journey had been cold and uncomfortable, but the horse was quick and sure of foot. Through puddle and mud, he'd galloped, pushing the beast to near exhaustion, in the desperate attempt not to miss his train.

When the station lights flicked into view, the man hauled a sigh of relief, whipping his mount into the last leg of the ride.

The man dismounted heavily from his horse and tied the reins to a rail. The animal whickered softly, gently butting his head against his rider's arm. The man quirked his lip and reached in his pocket to find a lump of sugar.

"I am not all tyrant," he said to himself, slowly crumbling the small granules in his hand, "Not all evil."

* * *

Holmes sat quite still after this revelation, drawing in the new information and adjusting in his mind the character of the woman sitting next to him on the wall.

"I am honoured that you have confided in me, Miss Latimer," he said carefully and slowly, "But of what help I can be, I am not sure." Anna shrugged, and sat up, pulling her head out of hands.

"I do not need help, Mr Holmes," she said softly, "Just a little conversation." Holmes twitched his nose slightly and nodded uncertainly. Anna shivered once more and pulled her arms around her body. Holmes regretfully, noticed this, and shrugged his own coat off, draping it around Anna's shoulders. The stiff woollen material was warm against her neck and hands. Anna wriggled her arms through the sleeves, and tucked the over long arms around her.

Holmes smiled at the comical sight of a young woman wrapped in a mens coat as if it were a straight jacket.

"Thank you," the young woman whispered, inching closer to him in an attempt to get warm. Holmes up turned his head to gaze at the stars that twinkled unconvincingly above them.

"What do you intend to do about your sister's offer?" he asked quietly, leaning back against the railings.

"Accept I suppose," Anna replied, arching her back and screwing up eyes as she stretched. "This is all a bad dream," she continued, "I'll wake up and it will all be over."

"May I ask you a question, Miss Latimer?" he said out loud.

Anna nodded slowly.

"Why did it have to be my good brandy?"

* * *

In his office at Scotland Yard, Lestrade shuddered with doubt as he waited.

"Lestrade," Lord Highcroft said calmly from the door.

Lestrade jumped and turned to face his superior. "My lord," he began but was cut off by a wave of a gloved hand.

"Do not waste your breath Lestrade, you know what must be done," Highcroft smiled menacingly, "We have all the evidence, all that is now required of you, is to end this investigation." Lestrade nodded silently and pulled his coat from its hook behind his desk. He crossed to the door and passed the lord who stood, propped against the frame.

"Oh Lestrade?" Lestrade turned. Highcroft tossed him a cold black object.

"Use it when the time is right," he advised. Lestrade nodded, and continued down the corridor, slipping the revolver into his pocket.

* * *

The man with blue eyes watched the house carefully from across the street, awaiting the walkers return. He had been surprised to see the woman step out with the detective at that time of night; she staggering slightly as the cold air hit her. The detective had been silent and upright as usual, but somehow more relaxed in her company than before. He had seen her raise a hand to her back a few times, pain shooting through her legs and spine. He knew of her visit to the hospital and he knew that she had not told either of these gentlemen she lived with.

Someone was approaching now. Two someone's. The woman draped in a gentleman's coat and supported under the arm by the detective, tired though not upset. She seemed almost asleep in his arms.

He sighed. He was genuinely sorry. But there were greater things at stake.

* * *

Holmes had ended up carrying Anna up the stairs in the end; she was too tired, in pain or intoxicated to manage them. He used her feet to push open the door and carefully manoeuvred her through the door. Watson still lay snoring in his chair. Anna opened one eye bleary,

"Sssh," she scolded before turning her head back to Holmes' chest. Holmes raised an eyebrow as he had done several times that night and laid her down gently on the couch.

The brandy's effect had returned in force as it often does, leaving Anna dizzy and happily confused. She was oblivious to the world around her. She twisted around until she was comfortable, curling her legs up. Holmes perched on the edge of the couch, rubbing his eyebrow. He was not going to get his coat back tonight. Holmes hunted around under the couch and found a blanket. He carefully arranged it over the sleeping girl and stood, yawning, strangely ready for his bed.

"Mr Holmes?" A sleepy voice murmured softly. Holmes twisted round and crouched down so he was level with Anna's head.

"Yes," he said softly. She looked straight into his eyes, her grey ones clear and crystal. Gently she touched his cheek before kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered before turning over and falling asleep, leaving Holmes still and surprised by the physical contact. He pulled himself onto the end of her couch and shook his head, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. _Bloody women,_ he decided finally, closing his eyes and joining the room in sleep.

* * *

The woman was now packing her bags, ready to leave this place of loneliness. The man's presence had filled it in a way that she had not felt since before she was married. She had made many bad decisions; this was probably one of them. But it was a chance for happiness and she was willing to risk it all for that.

There was little left to be done. She picked up the gun that lay on her bed, contrasting with the white of the bedclothes. Regimentally, she rolled the cylinder over and checked the rounds. Flicking it back into place, she took aim at a spot above the window. She pushed the hammer down and pulled the trigger.

* * *

A bell ringing softly awoke Watson from his sleep. Sitting up abruptly, he gripped the arms of his chair causing the paper he had been reading to fall to the floor. He kneaded his eyes and glanced up at the clock. Midnight.

Exhaling loudly, he stretched out his arms, then suddenly noticing the other members of the room. They sat together, Anna had turned in her sleep and her head was now resting against Holmes' leg. Holmes was spread out, his legs sticking across the room and his head lolling off the back of the sofa. Watson frowned in confusion but before he could wake either of them there was a knock on the door. He hurried to answer it, revealing Mrs Hudson wrapped in a large shawl and nightgown.

"Oh Mr Watson, thank goodness you're awake," she whispered urgently, "There are policemen here!" Watson's frown grew deeper as he suppressed the urge to hit the door frame.

"Are they in the hall?" he asked quietly, stepping onto the landing and closing the door behind him. The landlady nodded. Watson sighed and straightened his collar, before setting off down the stairs.

"Gentleman," he called as he approached the last few steps, "To what to owe this pleasure?" The sergeant, grim faced and stony cold, eyed Watson suspiciously.

"Doctor Watson?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes," Watson replied warily. The sergeant handed him a piece of paper.

"I am here to arrest your charge, Miss Annalese Latimer," said he, slightly uncomfortable over the idea of arresting a woman.

"What?" Watson said in disbelief, snatching the paper from his hand and peering at it mistrusting. One of the officers behind the sergeant coughed and pointed to above Watson.

Anna had appeared sleepily at the top of the stairs, haloed in the lamp light. She descended a few steps, her face puzzled.

"Who is it Watson?" Holmes shouted from the drawing room, picking up the paper Watson had dropped. On receiving no answer, he got up and stuck his head out of the door.

"Go back inside Miss Latimer," he said gravely seeing the officers and Watson's pallor, "Now."

"I'm afraid that is not possible, Mr Holmes," the sergeant called up to him, "We have orders to arrest Miss Latimer on suspicion of murder."

Holmes pushed past Anna and walked slowly down the stairs, his eye's glinting dangerously. "On what charge?" he asked softly. The Sergeant straightened up.

"For the murder of her Grace, Duchess of Fief."

* * *

_It's been a long time coming I'm afraid._

_Thanks to all those who have stuck by it!_


	10. Poison, Prison and Planning

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_As I read this back it all seems a very long time ago that I started writing Tolling Bells and I have yet to finish it! There is a second and third story in the pipeline still to come eventually! I do apologise for any spelling or grammatical errors I am awful at spotting my own and would be grateful to anyone who fancies reading through later chapters._

_Thanks for your support guys!_

* * *

The Sergeant had not yet finished. He pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket and very slowly, as if important, began to read out the remaining charges.

"And for the suspected murders of Sir Henry Latimer and Thomas Latimer," Holmes sprinted down the last of the carpeted stairs and grasped the officer by the arm, in such a vice that would later leave bruises.

"Upon whose direction?" he asked impatiently, tightening his grip. The sergeant snorted and signalled with his free arm to two of the officers behind him.

"Kindly unhand me Sir, or you'll leave my men no choice but to make you," Holmes released him reluctantly and took a step back, blocking the stairs, the man carried on; brushing his arm as if flecks of dust might rest there.

"My orders come from Chief Inspector Lestrade; you may take up the matter with him," he raised his eyes to the top of the stairs, "Miss Latimer, if you would please accompany us to the station,"

Anna had half fallen across the banister at which she now clutched as if death itself would not prise her from it. Her usual pale complexion was flushed pink and her deep grey eye's seemed bloodshot and wide.

"This yours miss?" one of the officers at the door said, indicating the dark coat which she had worn earlier that day.

"Yes," she whispered faintly, not entirely sure why he wanted to know. This became clear as the officer began rummaging in the pockets. Watson opened his mouth in protest but Holmes, his face hard and cold, silenced him with a hand on the doctor's shoulder. He himself began climbing the stairs to Anna's side.

"Anna," Holmes spoke quietly and calmly, "Do you understand what the man is saying?" No reply, just franticly shifting eyes that could get a lock on anything. Holmes tried again, taking her hand in his.

"Anna, you have to listen," He squeezed her hand firmly. Anna met his eye and began shaking her head, tears rising up in her eyes.

"I didn't do it," she cried, her voice choked and scared, "I don't want to die, oh Alice, Alice," Her body trembled visible and shook with shock and despair. Holmes quickly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, trying unsuccessfully to repress the shudders.

"Sir?"

The officer had found something. He handed over the small glass phial to the sergeant who watched the dregs of some crimson blood like liquid, mesmerised, as they swirled around the glass. He pulled open the stopper and sniffed it.

"Poison," he muttered disgusted, replacing the seal and slipped it into his pocket. Watson took a decisive step forward.

"My patient is under considerable strain as it is and will not be fit for questioning," he began angrily but the sergeant cut him off.

"She appeared perfectly alright when she walked from Baker Street with your friend, earlier this evening," he said snidely. Watson looked confused and glanced up at Anna who was leaning against Holmes, her face buried in his shoulder.

Two officers pushed past Watson and began to climb the stairs, their great black boots leaving deposits of London dirt on the carpet. They were blocked by Holmes, his face livid with anger and his hands clenched tightly at his side.

"Lay a finger upon her and I will not hesitate to use force against you," said he, his voice cold and dangerous. Watson, had he felt any compassion for the two officers, would have warned them not to proceed. Yet at the nod of their superior, both lunged for Holmes, knocking him back onto the stair. For all his twisting and turning, Holmes was taken by surprise, unable to move. Two more policemen followed up the stairs, stepping over the fallen detective to take hold of the cowering Anna. The sergeant restrained Watson as he attempted to intervene.

"Leave it John," Anna murmured tiredly, as the police officers frog marched her to the door, "It's not worth the effort." Watson stared after her despairingly.

"Anna!" he shouted after her, "Anna!" He ran out of the door and down the steps, driven by some imaginable force and threw himself into the road, falling to the floor, as the retreating police hansom pulled away.

And on the stairs, Holmes sat up thoughtfully, cigarette lit and smoking in one hand, the other judging that his nose wasn't broken.

* * *

The man with the bright blue eyes screwed them tight shut and tried to block out the sounds of the night around him. The man in the streets anguished shouts, the tears of the grey eyed beauty.

Part of him longed to go comfort the man on the pavement, who was being pulled to his feet by a kindly passer by, another wanted to laugh at him, and push him back into the dirt.

And the grey eyed girl.

He rammed his head against the wall. She amused and entranced him.

It was her that filled his head, those haunting eyes.

Eye's that filled with tears.

Eye's that smiled at him from the window.

Those dark grey eyes into which he was falling.

There was a knock on the door. He stood quickly, noting how he was slumped under the window sill, the open door of the detective's lodgings reflecting light into the room.

The man stood in the doorway, his eyes midly concerned at the state of figure before him.

"You look terrible," he commented idly, throwing Blue eyes a small hip flask. Blue eyes caught it gratefully and slowly twisted away the stopper.

"Is it done, brother?" he gasped after knocking back the flasks contents. The man nodded and grasped Blue eye's arm, pulling him from the window.

"It is out of our hands."

* * *

The Sergeant glared at Anna suspiciously as she was half carried down the steps to the labyrinth that was the cellars of Scotland Yard by the two arresting officers. Women that entered the cells here were one of two things, prostitutes or murderers. He grinned toothily and hoped it was the former rather than the latter.

He leant on the grill that separated the cells and the stair beyond, his large body bulging through the holes in the grill, a body which had spent the majority of it's time abusing those in his care. Pale and greasy haired, he had that gift that allowed him to constantly leer at people and it was to this, that Anna was to be left, cold and alone.

"Step into my parlour, miss," he mocked, bowing his head. Anna drew her shawl around her as he raised the grill and the two officers pushed her in. The sergeant sat himself down at his little desk, made only smaller by his enormity, and licked his pencil.

"Name?" he read off the form before him, squinting in the half light.

"She won't speak, Sarge" one of the arresting officers said helpfully. The sergeant glanced up at her and frowned.

"She looks like she could use a brandy," he admitted dubiously reaching for the bottle under his desk. The other officer rolled his eyes and grabbed the pencil.

"'Er name's Annalese Latimer and she's being dun for murder," he muttered, scribbling on the paper, "So lock 'er up good and proper!" And then throwing down the pen, he took the murderess' arm and began dragging her down the rows of cells.

"Ere," the sergeant cried jumping up amazingly quickly for someone of his size, "You can't do that, that's my job." Snatching up his keys from the desk, he hurried down the cells after the two retreating figures.

* * *

The woman shivered slightly with excitement, the thrill of the kill almost upon her. By the stroke of midnight tomorrow she would be away and nothing could stop her.

"Are you cold, my dear," her lover whispered in her ear, wrapping his arms around her. She leant back into him, revelling in his the feel of his touch.

"No," she murmured, pulling his coat up around so it encircled the both of them, "Just happy." He chuckled.

"So am I," he kissed her cheek and then hesitated, "Why do have to do this, why don't we just leave now?"

She turned on him.

"Because I want that money and I'm not stopping until I have it!" The man clutched her shoulders tightly.

"I'll not kill her," he hissed fiercely. The woman glared back at him and raised her hand as if to strike but was halted by a voice at the door.

"Sorry to interrupt," Blue eyes drawled, his face a fathomless mask, "You kill her, I kill you, understand?" The woman stood fuming, turned on by the united front of men, what choice had she to agree.

But she had known they would do this. She had known that neither could be relied upon. She was already prepared for that. So secretly, she smiled and hid her face from the world, ready to carry out her plan.

* * *

"Oh God," the arresting officer cried as Holmes and Watson came marching down the corridor towards him, "Not you two again!" Watson's good natured face was creased with anger and his stride was so purposeful, that the police officer flattened himself up against the wall.

"Where is she?" Watson bellowed at him. The officer scowled moodily and pointed at the steps that led down to the cells.

"In the pit," he answered and watched as the two gentlemen parted, never ceasing to move forward, one towards the lady, the other to whatever purpose detained him.

Holmes nearly knocked Lestrade's door to floor as he rammed against it and into the room. The inspector sat at his desk as if waiting for Holmes to appear. He looked quite unperturbed by the sight of his door being smashed into and even the glares of hawkish man before him seemed to unable disturb his calm.

"Get it over with Holmes, if you wish to rant. It will be the crowning glory on rather a magnificent day," Lestrade spoke quietly, settling back in his chair. Holmes looked at him expectantly. Lestrade exhaled loudly.

"I'm handing in my resignation," said he, "I refuse to work on a force more corrupt than a Soho opium den." He gave Holmes a wry smile, and stood, taking his hat from the hook behind his desk.

"It has been an honour to have worked with you, Mr Holmes," Lestrade offered Holmes his hand which the detective pushed aside.

"Stop simmering in self pity Lestrade, you're to finer a man for the force to loose," Holmes said indifferently , "I did not come here to rant and rage, I need your help." Lestrade looked unconvinced and returned to his seat slowly. Holmes helped himself to the other and leaned forward intently.

"Tell me all you know of Lord Charles Highcroft, director of the metropolitan police."

* * *

Some time later as Lestrade related back all he knew there was a brief knock of the door.

"Hattie's in the corridor," Watson said shortly around the door before letting it close heavily again. Holmes stood, throwing Lestrade an exasperated look.

Once outside, Holmes glanced up and down the corridor before spying Hattie hidden in the shadows. He quickly grabbed her arm, and half dragged her into the empty room next to Lestrade's office.

"You shouldn't be here," he muttered releasing her, frowning. Hattie slammed the door closed behind her and faced him angrily.

"They told me ye were gone at the house," she retorted rubbing at her wrist, "Christ Holmes, did ye have to grip so hard?" Upon Holmes' silent expression, Hattie pulled herself onto a desk that stood against the far wall and began swinging her legs.

"So I hear your lady friend has been arrested, shame and all," As to the context of the last phrase Holmes could not be sure, yet he started anyway. Hattie grinned ruefully.

"You taught me the tricks of the trade Holmes, I've just picked up a few of me own," she laughed and smiled at him. Holmes eyed her warily before wearily joining her on the desk and pulling a cigarette case from inside his jacket. He flicked open the catch, pulled one and then offered it to Hattie. Yawning, she took two, tucking the second behind her ear for later. A moment and a match later, the pair sat in a cloud of smoke, leant back against the wall.

"Been watchin' over ye at Baker Street," Hattie admitted slowly, cigarette elegantly slung between two fingers, "So's someone else." Holmes glanced at her. She met his eye and nodded.

"Funny thing was," she mused, taking a drag, "He walked out of your neighbours bush and rang your doorbell." She shrugged as this information sank in prior to continuing.

"Townsend said someone approached his house in regards to some heavy duty work. So Townsend sends his lads along, no-one turns up, just a note saying it had all been taken care of." Holmes pursed his lips and rubbed the brink of his nose.

"You're going to wear your nose thin," Hattie said pointedly, taking his hand away from his head and setting it down on the desk. Holmes sighed and stubbed out the ends of cigarette.

"Where can I find poison Hattie?" he asked slowly. Hattie frowned and pulled a face.

"Try and think," he begged, pulling himself off the desk. Hattie grinned suddenly.

"Shall we adjourn to Putney?" she said holding out her hand. Holmes took it and pulled her to him.

"Can I bring the doctor?" he inquired. Hattie pulled yet another face and grunted her assent.

* * *

Anna grasped Watson's hands through the bars and pressed her face close to his to stop the flood of tears that threatened to overflow from her grey eyes. Her body felt faint and frail, and the very concept of spending another hour in that dark, dank police cell filled her with dread.

"We're going to get you out Anna," Watson whispered reassuringly, chaffing at her icy fingers, "Everything will be normal soon." Anna shook her head hysterically, and held his hands to her face.

"It won't ever be John," she choked out, "Will it? Tom's dead, father's dead, Allie's dead. We might as well all be." Watson was about to assure her that it wasn't so when a voice cut in from behind him.

"Ought to slap her, might do ye both good," Hattie suggested helpfully, walking towards them. Watson glared at her, to which she merely winked.

"Holmes wants ye, we're off to Putney!" she informed him in her usual cheerful manner. Watson grunted his understanding and waited for Hattie to leave. She did not decide to take a hint and eyed Anna observantly.

Anna stared in confusion at this newcomer, who could have been described as Anna's opposite. Where she was dark and small, Hattie was tall and fair. Details may be gone into but they possess an irrelevance in this story so shall now be ignored.

"Hattie Shenaid," Hattie said brightly, sticking her hand in between the bars, "Detective's apprentice." Anna took it absently and continued to stare at this woman who had just appeared before her.

"Anna Latimer," she whispered. Hattie grinned and took a drag on the cigarette that had been tucked behind her left ear.

"Yeh, I know."

* * *

They had hurried away from Scotland Yard in a hansom drawn by black horses. They crossed over the Thames by way of a blackened bridge and on down into the black streets of Cheapside.

The driver seemed to know exactly where he was going without instruction, and no one in the hansom seemed inclined to question his sense of direction besides Watson, who sat, squashed beside Holmes, throwing Hattie disgruntled looks whenever possible. These she ignored and pointedly looked out of the window until the horses skidded to an abrupt halt.

The house at which they had stopped was in darkness, it's tall, gaunt frame seemed almost crooked against the night sky. Nothing of great importance to the law abiding eye, unless it was closely observed. But these things very rarely are and therefore remain a secret to the world.

"Is this it?" Watson enquired sceptically, as Hattie jumped down, her skirts billowing up around her.

"No, my dear Doctor," Hattie replied contemptuously, "This is where your sit down and be quiet". Watson turned to Holmes and began to fume in a most ungentlemanly manner. Holmes sighed.

"Hattie," he warned, his voice low, if a little amused. Hattie shivered slightly at the pitch of his voice before running up the steps of the house in front of them. The door opened as she reached the top step to reveal a shadowy figure silhouetted by a single burning candle sat upon a table by the door.

The figure followed Hattie back down the steps, running on the tips of his toes so that the toe caps clipped the stone with the air of a tap dance. The two conversed quietly in whispers, Hattie grinning occasionally and the figure laughing out loud. The figure was, to be more specific, a man of tall stature almost that of Holmes, with a shock of thick black hair tucked untidily beneath a cloth hat.

"Holmes, Watson," Hattie said upon reaching the cab, "This is Johnny Townsend." Townsend touched his hat, his jacket pulling open to reveal a silken waistcoat. Holmes, I would say if he noticed this but the chances are high that he did, said nothing and proceeded to shake the gentleman's hand. Watson did the same.

"It is an honour to meet our hunter at last," Townsend spoke with a smile, his accent cocktail of different cities. Holmes acknowledged the small stab at his profession and turned to Hattie.

"Well?" he demanded of her. She laughed and took Townsend's arm, patting it motherly.

"Townsend is going back to the station for us, to ensure that Miss Anna doesn't go-a-wandering, and we," she dropped his arm only to take Watson's, tugging him out of the hansom, "Are going for a walk!"

* * *

Anna opened one bleary eye. She could hear the click of boot against stone. Click. Click. Click. She turned her head back against the wall, cocooned inside a standard issue grey blanket and ignored the impending footsteps. They stopped and were replaced with a loud clunk. Anna frowned and scrunched her eyes up tighter, determined not to notice what was going on outside her cell.

"Anna?" a voice called softly down the row of cells, echoing along the empty walls. The footsteps clipped quickly against the stone. Click. Click. Click. Then the voice again, soft and questioning.

"Anna?" So familiar. But no she wouldn't look.

"My God, what have they done to you?" Anna twisted her head towards the bars, letting the blanket fall around her.

"Edward?" she breathed hesitantly, then as the light fell upon him, "Edward!" Anna flew to the bars, nearly tripping over the blanket and grasped his hands tightly. He entwined his fingers around hers and leaned through the bars toughing her face with the other hand.

"I heard what had happened," he whispered as an explanation brushing away the curls of hair that had fallen across her face, his fingers moved furiously against her skin, never ceasing to maintain contact. Anna revelled in his touch and clutched at him tighter.

"I didn't do it Edward," she sobbed, collapsing against the bars. He shushed her gently and kissed her clenched hand softly.

"I know, I know,"

"How do you know? They all think I did it, that I killed her. How can you know who killer her?"

"Because I did," he said simply.

* * *

"Here's ye shop," Hattie pointed at a grimy looking place, locked and barred. Watson rubbed his sleeve against the window to clear peep hole through the dirt and bent over to peer in, only to be confronted by the open jaws of a stuffed alligator. He jumped back and briskly stood up right.

"I think they're closed,"

Hattie ignored him, tossing her tresses over one shoulder and bent down herself to rip a large strip from the skirt of her dress. Wrapping it around her fist, she approached the shop door and raised her arm. Watson quickly averted his eyes, as her hand smashed through the glass that framed the doorway. Reaching in, she turned the door handle and it sprung open.

"Hopefully the owner will now know we are here," she said cheerfully, stepping over the broken glass and into the poisoner's shop. Holmes followed, quite unperturbed by the circumstance whereas Watson continued to bristle as they moved through the shop to the counter at the back.

Miller stumbled out of bed and down the creaky stairs that lead to his garret above the shop. He slipped and fell, sliding down the stairs on his behind, landing with an almighty crash on the shop floor. Rubbing his arse, he peered up at his late night callers.

Hattie waved at him brightly from where she sat on the counter. He raised a hand and tipped an imaginary hat in respect.

"Miss," he muttered. Watson snorted slightly in disbelief and then in pain as Holmes elbowed him in the stomach. Turning on the seated man, Holmes fixed him with a stare.

"Now listen carefully Miller, and listen hard," Holmes spoke softly, "If you answer this simple question correctly, you'll get a light sentence rather than death." Miller nodded suspiciously, fixing his own eyes at a point below Holmes' head.

"Murder's a serious crime Miller, and unless you can prove you didn't do it, you'll swing," Holmes continued, "Who would want a Duchess dead? Can you tell me that?" Miller raised his head and sneered.

"You aint got a clue," he said darkly, "She weren't the target, she weren't meant to die,"

"Then who?" Watson snapped. Miller laughed madly, causing Holmes to put a foot on the shopkeeper's hand. Miller yelped.

"The sister, the bloody sister!"

* * *

There was a quiet mill of people outside Scotland Yard, glancing up at the narrow, leering widows that peered down upon the street as they walked on by. This in itself was not uncommon. Reporters were known to loiter around at the gates waiting for some story or gossip fit for front page news.

Townsend chaffed his hands together in a futile attempt to get warm. He did not have to be here, but he loved being amidst the action, the thrill of a new challenge. Hattie had made him swear his dark eyes would never leave the gates, to ensure only those that were meant to came in and out. He would not have done it for anyone else, but the promise of something more had beckoned him out into the cold and onto the streets. Townsend chuckled despite of himself and allowed his eyes to wonder as two less than decently dressed women tottered by, admiring the reserved use of dress. They passed by the gates and continued down the street that ran parallel to the Police headquarters wall.

"Shit," he hissed suddenly as behind the two prostitutes, the figure of a man emerged from a side door onto the street. He was stopped slightly under the weight of a limp bundle, trussed to his back. Throwing down his cigarette, Townsend ran across the road, avoiding several items of oncoming traffic and threw himself onto the opposite pavement.

* * *

Watson had already crossed the shop, wrenching the door open,

"We must save Anna," he cried, reminiscent ofavaliant knight ready to slay his dragon. It dawned on him that neither Holmes nor Hattie had made the slightest movement towards the door.

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, "We must leave." Holmes shook his head politely and observed the man on the sole of his boot.

"On the contrary, my dear Watson, it is far too late for us to make a significant impact on this stage of our enemies' plans as I predicted. No," he muttered turning to Hattie, "I do believe it would be prudent to find your friend, and then,"

But Holmes was unable to finish as there came an explosion from Watson which left the detective pinned up against the wall, the front of his shirt clenched in the grip of the magenta Watson.

"You used her as bait," he spat at Holmes, "How could you? You knew they were after her and still you left her." Holmes eyed him irritably and adopted a blank face.

"Let me go Watson," he commanded. Watson ignored him and tightened his grip. Hattie let out a sigh of despair and rendered a sharp kick to the back of Watson's knee's causing him to collapse, his hold on Holmes undone. The detective tugged at his shirt to return it to a presentable condition whilst Hattie eyed Watson warily as climbed angrily to his feet. Holmes looked reluctantly apologetic. "It will help her in the long run," he mumbled, brushing some dust off Watson's sleeve. Watson jerked his arm away.

"Sometimes Holmes," he commented bitterly, "I think you have no concept of anything but yourself and the answer. You would do well to stop and think about the people you are using." Holmes shrugged.

"It's a means to an end."

* * *

There was a dull thudding echoing inside head making her groaned slightly. Her eyes were still stinging and there was a vile bitter taste at the back of her mouth. Anna tried to open her eyes but realized they were all ready open. The room was pitch black. She stretched out her hand, feeling around for the edge of what she was lying on. It was an old iron bedstead; the crossed squares of wire were cutting into her back.

The bones in her back cried out as she tried to sit up and she let out an involuntary cry of pain. Biting her lip she pushed her feet round so that now hung over the floor. Using the bars of the bed as support, Anna pulled herself into a sitting position causing the bed to creak loudly. The noise echoed around the room and somewhere outside Anna heard the sound of foot steps. A bright light suddenly filled the room, and she hastily shielded her eyes. There came a brief murmur and the light was dimmed.

Her captor had took her by the arm, firmly as opposed to roughly, and led her along a dark servant's corridor, his hand never breaking contact. They stopped by a door near the end of the passage and the man opened it with his free hand, pushing her inside before him. It was a comfortable sitting room, soft divans and a crackling fire. There was a seat before the fire, a man's legs stretched out in front of it. As she stepped forward the man in the chair turned his head and as his eyes met hers, Anna felt a pain wrenching at her heart. "Oh god no," she whispered, "Please no."

"Hello Anna."

* * *

They made their way in silence back to Scotland Yard, Watson still furious. Holmes sat deep in thought, rubbing the brink of his noise, occasionally looking up to see where they were. The cab dropped them on the corner at Hattie's request. She jumped out and passed a cursory glance along the street, her face creasing into a frown. "What's wrong," Holmes asked stepping onto the pavement next to her.

She ignored him. Tossing a coin up to the cabby, she began walking briskly toward along the street. Holmes glanced back at Watson whose mood had quickly turned to anxiety. They marched quickly after her.

Hattie chewed her lip anxiously as they rounded the corner once more on their second tour of the block. Townsend was no where to be seen. Watson was growing impatient and even Holmes had an air of annoyance.

"Shit," she muttered as she peered across the street, "Where's he gone?" Watson made a grab for her arm.

"Where the hell is this friend, hm?" he hissed angrily. She looked at him unusually quiet.

"If he's gone," she said prising his fingers off her shirt, "Then so is she." Hattie turned to Holmes, "He's followed her. That's the only answer."

Suddenly, she started, tilting her head as if hearing something. Holmes heard it too. A low pitched whistle. Hattie gasped quietly as Townsend limped toward them, his lip split and face dirty with blood. He grinned cheerfully at Hattie who started towards him and then stopped, biting her lip. Townsend stopped smiling and nodded at her slightly. Holmes noted how she visibly relaxed before he turned to meet Townsend's eye.

"Well?" Holmes enquired. Townsend pulled a face and shook his head.

"They got her. Drugged or something." Watson groaned and turned to face the wall, one hand pulling at his hair. Holmes ignored him and asked

"Where?"

"Not far, a few streets away. I followed them but I wasn't expecting any surprises," he pointed at his emerging black eye, "Something's up though, they know I've seen them but they haven't moved her. I don't like it." Holmes reached out and gripped his arm, his mouth a grim thin line.

"Show me."

* * *

Anna stated the name softly, her eyes closed with regret, "Edward." Edward Croft looked at Anna sadly before turning away to take a drag of his cigarette. It had not had been a man that spoke though. Anna opened her eyes and glanced around the room. Her gaze came to rest on the woman standing by the window. "Hello Caroline."

Caroline Latimer smiled cruelly at her sister-in-law and strolled towards her. "Anna, my dear, have you met everyone?" She raised a hand at the man still stood behind Anna, "This is Lord Charles Highcroft, Commissioner of the London Constabulary." Highcroft did not move still guarding the door from which they had entered. Caroline continued, crossing the room to where Edward sat. "And this, Anna, is Edward Highcroft or Croft as he is more commonly known but I believe you have met."

Edward gave Caroline a disgusted look and snarled at her, his handsome features contorted with anger, "Get on with it." She raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a mocking stare.

"My, my. Somewhere else to be?" He stared back defiantly and she laughed, as if an amused by this act. "Oh Anna, I must share a little secret with you. Edward is not entirely acting of his own accord. We are somewhat twisting his arm, are we not Charles?" This time Anna could feel Highcroft shift uncomfortably. She looked at her sister in law uncertainly.

"What have you done?" she asked slowly. Caroline smirked and continued to stare at Edward.

"Edward happens to have a son, just four years old. The light of his life some might call him. Unfortunately, accidents can happen. Especially when little Thomas comes to visit his Uncle's estate as he does every year." The only word Anna could think of was one that she had overheard from maids talking.

"You bitch," she said angrily, "Why bring him into this? You could have just killed me like you killed my brother and be done with it."

"And your father," the older woman added gleefully, "Do not forget him." The words hit Anna as if she had been slapped across the face. Her legs shook and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

Edward leapt to his feet and rushed to her side. "You idiot," he hissed at Caroline as he felt for Anna's pulse. She laughed casually and turned away, patting her hair. Edward looked up at his brother and shook his head. "You can't let her do this," he said quietly. Charles let out a long sigh, his rigid muscles relaxing as he did so. He half shrugged and glanced across at his lover.

"I love her," he said simply.

* * *

Townsend led them through the streets of London with practised ease. Hattie fell into pace beside him, unconsciously chewing on her bottom lip as the tension amongst the group mounted. Holmes and Watson walked, unwillingly on the Doctor's part, together with the detective being in a state of deep concentration. This was broken by Townsend's abrupt stop on the corner of a narrow street which led on to a small square. The houses in the square were all of a similar middle class affair, with matching smart doors and white framed windows. Townsend pointed at one that was detached from the others and situated on the far side of the square. Unlike the others, it looked old and shabby as if unused. The lights burning in the top most windows suggested otherwise.

"That's the one?" Holmes asked quietly. Townsend nodded, his dark eyes worried.

"There were men, waiting here on this corner and outside the house when they first brought her here. Can't see them now. Something is not right." Holmes pulled a face and signalled for Hattie to join him.

"I propose we go in through the front door as there does not appear to be anyone there," he glanced at the doctor, "Watson you stay here with Hattie, keep the exits covered." Watson did not argue and stalked off into the shadows. Holmes turned to Hattie, her face displeased, and frowned, "You are of no use to me in there for as much as you shall argue the brawn of men is often more useful in a fight." She glared up at him and then looked across at the house.

"Very well. Be careful."

* * *

Anna pushed back the cloud that had engulfed her and felt a wave of feeling wash over her. She was lying on the floor; someone had put a cushion under her and there were arguing voices around her. A small part of her brain was telling her not to move and she obeyed, instead listening to the conversation around her.

"I'll not let you kill her Caroline." Edward. There came a cruel chuckle.

"But, my dear stupid boy, that was always going to be the end result. You know that. Charles tell him." The other man paused slightly before answering.

"This is your game Mariah. I'll not interfere." The woman snorted.

"Well that will do as answer." There came a rustling of silk and then the unmistakeable sound of a pistol being cocked. "It is such a shame your son will grow up fatherless but at least he will know you died nobly if pointlessly some feeble woman." Anna coiled like a spring, quickly raising her hands to ears as the gun went off and inevitable sound of a dull weight hitting the wooden floor followed.

* * *

Holmes paused on the stairs as the shot rang out, the image of Anna flashing through his mind. Townsend looked up sharply and then began climbing rapidly. Holmes hurried after him as he turned down a corridor. "The shot came from the attic," Townsend muttered, "We need the servants' stairs." Holmes nodded and quickened his pace. They reached the end of the passage and slipped through a small, discreet door that led onto a flight of plain wooden stairs. Townsend pulled a revolver from the waistband of his trousers and put a finger to his lips. Holmes raised his cane and began to ascend the stairs, ensuring not to tread heavily and cause the wood to creak. Then came a sudden shout followed by a second shot.

* * *

"Wake up Anna," Caroline crooned, panting slightly before delivering a sharp kick to her sister in law's back. Anna cried out as pain shot up her spine, unfurling from her foetal position. Caroline knelt down heavily beside her, pushing her dark hair from her face. "Poor helpless, fragile little Anna," She poked her cruelly with the butt of the revolver she still held at the base of her spine, "Always so ill. Technically," she twisted her face into a vague appearance of contemplation, "I could just wait for you to die, pathetic thing that you are. But where's the fun in that?" Anna reached out her hands as sobs of pain racked her broken body in an attempt to drag herself across the floor and away from the woman. Her hands caught something soft and full of dread she raised her eyes from the floorboards. "Charles never approved of killing a woman," Caroline spat, now advancing on Anna, revolver clasped tightly in both hands. "Said we should work our way around you. Get the law on our side, as it were." She paused to laugh cruelly, "Talbot just would not play ball properly."

Anna's face crumbled and she moaned as she realized that the soft material was the sleeve of Charles Highcroft, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. She scrambled painfully to her knees and pushed herself away from the body. "Oh God." Her eyes fell upon a second body across from Highcroft and a fresh flood of tears fell. "No, not him too. Oh God." Caroline saw where her eyes fell.

"It is a shame that Charles developed some sudden burst of brotherly love, taking the bullet for Edward. It was inevitably that Edward would die though," she smiled bitterly and cocked the firearm once more, "He did love you so Anna darling."

"Yes, I do." The shot resonated through the small room. Both women turned to stare at the floor where Edward lay. He had propped himself up on one arm, the other hand was holding a small pistol and it was pointed at Caroline Latimer, the barrel still smoking. She fell in slow motion against the table, knocking the oil lamp to the floor. The bullet had caught her square in the heart causing a pool of blood to create a sodden arc across her breast.

Edward dropped the gun and then collapsed himself onto the floor. A wave of hysteria washed over Anna as she fought to control her shocked body so as to breathe. She pulled herself to her knees and began to crawl across the room to the prone body of Edward.

"Edward," she called hoarsely, "Edward?" He did not answer her and when she reached him, it was clear he was dead. She could see where the bullet had left his body, leaving behind a hole from which his life source had departed. Anna pulled at his body, in an attempt to rouse him. She was not aware of the fire that begun to take hold of the room, only of the anguish which ripped through her heart. Pain and smoke soon smothered her and she fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

_Please let me know what you think!_

_Terriah_


	11. End, Endings and Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I** do not own Holmes (would like to but don't) Doyle was an amazing writer!

_Ok the characters of Holmes and Watson are based on that of the BBC television series. Any complaints see me! Lol_

_As I read this back it all seems a very long time ago that I started writing Tolling Bells and I have yet to finish it! There is a second and third story in the pipeline still to come eventually! I do apologise for any spelling or grammatical errors I am awful at spotting my own and would be grateful to anyone who fancies reading through later chapters._

_Thanks for your support guys!_

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* * *

  
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**End, Endings and Epilogue **

Outside in the street Hatty waited anxiously. A plume of smoke was now rising from between the roof tiles and she could see the flicker of flames in the top most window. She glanced across at Watson, who was starring solidly at the building, unmoved. "Bugger it," she whispered to herself and pushed herself out of the shrubbery onto the path. With a last deep breath of the cool air outside she threw herself up the steps and through the front door.

Holmes ran into the burning room and nearly fell over the first of the bodies by the door. "Christ," he whispered, "Anna? Anna!" He found her prone body, huddle around that of Edward Croft, both still and lifeless. He didn't wait to check a pulse and quickly scooped her up in arms. "Townsend," he bellowed, "Lets get out of here!"

* * *

Watson met them on the front steps, his arms open for the body of his friend. Holmes shook his head, " Away from the building Watson, hurry." They laid Anna down on the cobbles and Watson began examining her airways.

"She's not breathing Holmes," he hissed. Holmes turned to Townsend, "Knife," he barked. Watson grabbed the blade and quickly slit open the front of Anna's dress, ripping the pieces apart so he had clear access to her chest. Clenching his fist, he beat it down hard against her heart, "Don't die on me." He beat his fist again. Holmes found he could not watch and looked at Townsend, who was glancing up and down the street.

"Where's Hatty?" he asked. Watson answered by way of jerking his head in the direction of the house, his fist still beating a stoic rhythm. Townsend stared at him in disgust, "You let her go into a burning house?" before running back up the steps.

Holmes stood torn. The house burnt defiantly to one side of him, his friend inside, and the woman he was growing increasingly fond lay dying in the street next to him.

There was a sudden crash as the windows of the house smashed into the street. "Holmes," Watson yelled, " I need you help. Help me Holmes."

The detective was frozen, his mind trying to reason what would be the most logical course. He stood, just stood, unable to process what to do. Who to help, who to save.

There was another crash as the floors began to give way and the fire completely consumed the house.

* * *

Holmes waited as the last of the mourner had left before approaching the fresh pile of sod and soil that was heaped by the graveside. The priest still stood there, tucking the silken marker inside his bible. "So young," he said quietly, "Quite tragic." He looked across at Holmes kindly, "Did you know the.."

"Oh," Holmes said quickly "Only a little. I'm here on behalf of a friend." The priest nodded resignedly before moving away, weaving his way slowly through the forest of graves.

"Why do they lurk so?" A voice called behind Holmes.

"I've no idea, Miss Latimer," he turned, "Perhaps to comfort?" Anna frowned and walked awkwardly toward him, her arms still unused to the new stick she now relied upon. The detective offered her his arm as she stepped to the edge.

"Excellent turn out," she commented dryly, "His son really was very young. Too young." Holmes raised an eyebrow,

"It is always too young to lose a father. But he will get by." She nodded silently, and threw down a single small flower, not a rose, but a daisy. They stood for a moment and then gently, Holmes turned her around and they walked slowly down the path. They were quiet until they reached the street when Anna spoke.

"How is your friend, Mr Holmes? The young woman?" Holmes allowed himself a small smile.

"Hatty? She is well now, though I doubt Townsend will let her forget that he had to save her." Anna laughed a little. "Can you believe, he pulled her out and told her she was a silly cow?" Holmes laughed, though a little hollowly. He omitted the part where Townsend had pulled Hatty too him and embraced her passionately, both of them having collapsed onto the cobbled street. It made him uncomfortable to remember. His mind wondered.

Anna touched him lightly on the hard, "Mr Holmes?" He nodded, to himself more than to her, an affirmation that everything was well and together they continued down the road.

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**Watson's Journal**

_Anna returned with us to Baker Street after her ordeal, though not for too much longer as it was not truly appropriate to have a young woman living with two such confirmed old bachelors!_

_Holmes enlightened us all to the secrets that he kept privy to himself throughout this case, one evening after our last supper. He had invited Lestrade, which was always a sure sign that he wished to brag, and sure enough once we were in the drawing room he stood up and began…._

"_Caroline Latimer, other wise known as Mariah Northman, was a con artist a fact discovered by the late Mr Latimer, senior. She met Lord Highcroft when he arrested her. She seduced him and they set to work on developing a plan to entrap the Latimer family and take their fortune, for unbeknownst to Anna that was what the estate has become. She poisoned her father in law and had her new husband, Anna's brother, killed, probably by Lord Highcroft. But they had a problem, you Anna. It was assumed that you would never live long enough to be an obstacle, but here you are. You had to be eliminated, but since you came to us, a simple thuggish attack would not work. Initially they tried to have you cut off from your income, in the hope that you would simply fade away but that failed, resulting in the death of Mr Talbot. So they blackmailed Lord Highcroft's younger brother into seducing Anna, by threatening the life of his young son. I know not whether he was a willing participant but one assumes that by saving your life, Anna, that his was at least partially reformed. It was Lestrade that identified that there was even a brother, so without your help sir I would have been much asunder. I can then conclude that the rest of the pieces fall into place around this information I have provided."_

_He sat himself down and contently, if not a little smugly, smoked his pipe whilst Lestrade glowed a little in the compliment made to him. Anna was very quiet and retired early. I think that for all the brave front she put on she was most attached to Mr Croft or rather Highcroft, and that his death was another blow she could have done without._

_Soon she will leave us for a nursing home of sorts, where she can be cared for more appropriately. Her ability to walk is becoming more and more hindered and I don't doubt that she will be confined to a chair by the time the year is out. I do not want to see her leave and, well, I fear Holmes maybe becoming quite attached._

_

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Watson paused a moment in his writing and looked up at his friends. They sat consumed in a chess match, she concentrating fervently and he looking at her, a contented smile resting on his lips.

* * *

_For now, I can only make sure that she will be comfortable and I can only hope that we won't lose her too soon._

_Watson._

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**I know it's very short!**

**But I didn't have much more that I wanted to say in this story, only that there will be more. Seeing the new film has inspired me somewhat.**

**If I get ten reviews, I will start the new one by the end of the week!**

**Terriah**


	12. A Troubled Man Preview

Hi guys, just a short note to let you know that I have started the sequel and it is now online. Here's a sneaky peak!

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**November**

_The room hung heavy with the smell of opium and Holmes could feel the smoke seeping into his lungs. He turned to his companion and kissed her fervently, pulling them down onto the deep cushions. She closed her eyes and rolled back her head to gaze at the ceiling with it's richly painted waves. He trailed a finger down the arch of her neck, his eyes wide as he reached her collar bone. He could feel her shivering beneath him and reached down to kiss the spot where his finger had been. He could hear the thud of her heart as he started to trail kisses lower and lower. _

_Thud._

_Then there seemed to be no clothes between, just skin and he could still hear her heart. "Sherlock," the woman whispered in his ear, "Please." It was the plea of lover waiting to be satisfied._

_Thud._

_He pulled away so that he might look at her but he could still hear the thudding of her heart. Not heart like at all. More like a fist raining down upon a chest. No, not a chest. Wood. _

_Thud._

_A door._

_**Thud.**_

Holmes woke with a start, a quick glance at the empty bed beside him a cursory gesture to the last traces of his dream before stumbling to his feet and the door. He wrenched it open and earnt a disapproving look from Mrs Hudson as well as a note, which she thrust abruptly into his hand. He watched her retreat down the stairs before slamming the door. "Irritable bat," he muttered darkly sinking back onto his bed and rubbing his arm. His fingers caught on the small dots that were speckled along the veins and he found his body ached profoundly. Holmes felt his eyes drawn to the locked cabinet on the far wall where he knew a syringe and a bottle waited. "No, no, no," he whispered to himself, "You promised her, no more." Groaning, Holmes raked his hand through his short fair hair and then along his hawkish face. He was a tall man, athletically built though not as muscular as he had once been before the discovery of narcotics. Now he was thin and hard. He was attractive, not in a typical way, and there was something intriguing about his shadowy blue eyes. Holmes sighed and stretched his arms above his head, twisting his head to look at the clock.

Eleven o'clock.

Holmes yawned as his back clicked slightly and turned his attention to the note. It was from Lestrade. Holmes pulled a face and looked back at the clock. He had four hours before he was supposed to be doing anything. That was plenty of time to consider a corpse.

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AN:Please go and check it out


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